


I'll Call You By Yours

by brasspetal



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 80's short shorts, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bittersweet, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Silver has awesome adoptive parents, Slow Burn, a summer affair in the italian countryside, coming to terms with sexuality, plenty of peaches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: It's the summer of 1983 in Lombardy, Italy when 19-year-old John Silver meets the love of his life.--'Call Me By Your Name' Au





	1. The Six Week Guest

**Author's Note:**

> This will follow mostly the book/movie of 'Call Me By Your Name' You don't have to watch or read it to understand this!
> 
>  
> 
> Check out this gorgeous edit for this fic by @ellelan [here](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/post/169006222457/they-are-mythologically-bound-beneath-the-sun-like)

 

They are mythologically bound beneath the sun like venerable statues; chipped away but melded together. They are a story retold time after time in juxtaposed silhouettes in a field of grass.

 

**Summer 1983 Lombardy, Italy**

 

The tires rolling across the gravel is the first indication of the approach. Although, this isn’t anything new. John Silver has grown accustomed to having strangers living in his house, welcomed in by his adoptive parents as if they have always been there. They’ve almost become fixtures, like the dated dusty furniture.

He changes his shirt for the third time, tossing it on the bed beside Madi who glares at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“The six-week-guest is here.” John comments appearing casual and throws on a bright red shirt with an unsatisfied sigh. His shorts are a colorful explosion of reds and oranges that touch the tops of his thighs and his dark curls are a messy nest from changing an aggravating amount of times. He shimmies across the floor towards the window that overlooks the tree-lined drive and leans on the sill; his fingers pressed tight to the wood.

“So, what’s he look like?” Madi asks and glances back down at the book she’s reading in her lap.

John blinks down below at his father Hal Gates and mother Fiona Mapleton who stand with equal welcoming smiles as the car door opens. There’s a flash of sun that blinds him from the trunk and he only hears a low friendly “Hello!” Chimed back.

“John?” Madi prods.

He shields his eyes from the offending light and catches the glimpse of a billowing blue shirt before they’ve disappeared inside. John immediately takes off from the sill towards the stairs with Madi calling irritably after him.

His parents enjoy housing youthful academics to burgeon their growth through education for which they value highly but not to a degree of superiority. It was often that John found himself moving to a smaller adjoining room to give the six-week guest a big enough space to rest their thoughts. They’re given freedom to enjoy the Italian countryside as long as they spent a reasonable amount of time helping his father with his research.

He slows his feet as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and listens while walking down the hallway to the warm conversation from the sitting room. The daylight leaves soft trails of blinking shadows in the doorway and he steps inside the residual glow.

“Ah, this is our son John Silver. And John, this is James Flint.” His father announces with an ineffably large grin.  

_James._

Stepping out of the fragmented light, he sees the six-week guest, standing in front of him with a small reserved smile. His red hair is messily falling slightly into his right eye, framing the pale skin that has a new muted sun-kissed glow. His cheeks are reddened in a flush from the exertion of traveling and his blue shirt with a wide-open collar reveals a glimpse of freckled skin from beneath. There’s a hidden curiosity to his features for this place and perhaps, fleetingly, for John.

They shake hands firmly and John feels his lips pull into a nervous smile. He didn’t quite understand why his nerves have decided to put on a play. This should be familiar and yet that’s somehow a lie.

He could sense it when he first heard the tires meet the gravel, the change in the air, like something blooming and pressing against his lungs.

“You must be exhausted.” His father chides and Flint snaps his green eyes away from John’s.

“A little bit.” He says with a huff and his father releases a small chuckle before patting him once on the shoulder.

John interrupts with choreographed confidence, “Should I bring your things up to my room?” 

It forces those impenetrable eyes on him again and Flint replies with a simple, “Sure.”

John bends down to grab two of his suitcases which sat against the wall and he follows him out into the hallway towards the stairs. They say nothing at first, it’s the beginning awkward space of silence filled with questions not yet voiced between them. Madi’s shoes echo down the stairs and John steps back to allow her by, “You’re leaving?” He throws out over his shoulder.

She ignores him easily and has a friendly smile meant for James who she grabs the shoulders of and kisses his cheeks in greeting.

“Nice to meet you,” James replies politely.

She nods slyly before taking her leave out into the daylight.

Up the stairs, John pushes his door open and sets the suitcases beside the doorway under his myriad of small pictures haphazardly stuck with tape to the walls. James follows him inside, and John watches from the corner of his eye as he studies his bedroom.

Out of the many times John has given his bedroom to a six-week guest, this is the only time it feels as though he’s opened a different door, one inside of himself and he’s letting this James snoop around inside his skull.  It’s unnerving, rattling, jarring.

James doesn’t say a word, he just moves towards John’s bed and collapses inside of it with a grunt. John gathers up a pile of his clothes left on the floor and tosses them into a basket in the corner of the room.

“I’ll be next door but we will have to share the bathroom,” John comments and shuts one of the connecting doors beside the closet.

When there is no answer given John turns to face James who has his face buried in a pillow already softly snoring. John fights the smile creeping across his face and promptly leaves the room to his temporary smaller abode.

He’s grown used to the room he stays in, it’s tight but there is usually more light if he chooses to leave the curtains open but the floorboards creak louder beneath his feet.

He sits in the wooden chair at the small desk against the window and pulls out his Walkman from one of the squeaky drawers. He rests it in front of him beside the blank sheet of music waiting to be filled and whispers once, “James.” Aloud for no real reason. It fits on his tongue the way other names didn’t. He still feels the firm fingers grasp his from the leftover handshake and rests his hand palm up on the desk limply until it begins to tingle.

The day wanes, folding like a fan of gold across the landscape of trees out of John’s window. The scribbling of his pencil is the only thing that’s heard as he fills the page with sound; his own sound. The music crescendos in his ears from the Walkman but it’s merely the ticking background accompaniment; a singing clock to remind him how much time he’s given.

The bell dings from downstairs and he lifts the earphones off to set on his desk. He stands and walks slowly to the door adjoining the two rooms.

He lifts his hand to knock but decides against it. His palms are clammy and he feels oddly out of place.  Instead, he sets his hand on the knob and opens it.

Inside, the room is a blue-hued dark and the soft snores are easily heard in the silence. James is still slumbering deeply, unaware. John creeps across the room avoiding specific creaky boards but suddenly trips over one of James’ shoes that wasn’t there before. He catches himself with the palms of his hands loudly against the wood and James sits up startled, squinting at him half lost in a dream.

John rights himself, standing up, his cheeks heating up in the process. “Uh yeah, sorry. Dinner is ready.”

James blinks at him processing his words, his eyes closing temporarily, “I think I’ll pass tonight, will you apologize to your parents for me? I’m utterly exhausted.”

He moves grabbing one of the pillows more firmly and shoving it beneath his head before shutting his eyes against it again. Silver nods even though he doesn’t witness his agreement and presses his lips together before heading for the door.

“This is your room?” James asks, his voice scratchy from sleep.

John turns back with a slight smile before brushing the curls that fall across his forehead out of his eyes. “Yeah, it’s-.” Is all he manages before he notices James’ breathing deepen back into slumber. He doesn’t know how long he stands there watching the rise and fall of his chest on his bed; the red hair contrasting the white of his pillow.

\--

James Flint wakes to the sounds of the echoed chirping from innumerable birds outside that herald the new day. His back is stiff from sleeping in the same position for the entire night and he cringes as he sits up to stretch. He runs his fingers through his hair before yawning wide.

The door to the adjoining small room of John Silver’s is open but there is no sign that he is inside it. He peers down at his bare feet and thinks of those blue eyes sliding to his. The young man had a secretive sort of smile, the kind that you’d normally find a new meaning behind each time it’s given. Is it too early to call him an enigma?

“Yes,” James says aloud and shakes his head.

He hadn’t counted on Hal Gates having an elusively beautiful son. That may be what all this electricity in his mind is, simple attraction. He can think these things from afar, it’s how he’s always managed. 

He showers before changing into a pair of fresh khaki shorts and a light blue button up that rests snuggly open for his collarbone to breath.

Downstairs he listens to the sound of a stirring pot and murmured conversation that carries in from outside on the back terrace. He follows the line of light that guides him out of the large doors to the open beauty of the property and beyond. Tree’s stretch up forming the orchard that houses light as if such a thing can be harvested like a peach.

“I can’t believe this place.” James compliments as he greets the small family at the table outside. Professor Hal Gates turns to wave a good morning. Fiona Mapleton squints at him warmly as she digs a pit from an apricot and John Silver sits at the head of the table, half on the seat, half off, his hair resting on the top of his tanned bare shoulders from the tank top he’s wearing.

“How are you?” Gates asks and James scrapes the nearest chair across the grassy stone to join them.

“Rested now, thank you,” James replies with a smile and looks out towards the trees housed in light once again.

“I can show you around,” John comments lightly and James moves his attention to him holding those eyes. A fly attempts to land in his orange juice and he swats it away. John tilts his head, fidgeting but not out of nervousness. He’d hazard a guess that it’s because John seems like the sort that can’t stay in one place for too long.

“Yes, thank you.” James agrees and that earns him a smile from the young man. His chest feels tight against his freshly laundered shirt. He continues, “What do you grow here?”

“Peaches, cherries, apricots, pomegranate.” Mrs. Mapleton answers and chews softly before passing a fresh egg to James.  

There’s a familiar tandem to the comfort found here, nameless but archaic, almost as if he’s done this before. As if he’s sat with these same people in another time. He wouldn’t know what to call it or how to express it but it’s there.

John picks a peach out of one of the bowls filled with them and bites into it as James cracks the egg messily with his spoon.

The silence is only marred by their shared eating and the buzzing of a distant bee. James Flint has already fallen in love with Italy.

\--

The heat dampens the hair against John’s neck and he observes James put a pair of large sunglasses on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.  He sees the gold necklace then, resting against his pale sweaty skin; a familiar hexagram.

He lets James choose which bike he wishes to ride to the city and he points to the nondescript silver one that gleams. He tries not to think that it was on purpose.

He nods once without a word as they straddle their seats. John’s dark blue shorts ride up his thighs higher from this position but he’s unable to tell if James has taken an interest because of those goddamn sunglasses.

He leads the way as they ride through the gravel pathways towards the precipice of Bergamo. There’s always a sweet aroma to the countryside here and John likes to shut his eyes in the wind as he lifts his arms out to take flight.

“You’re going to crash..” James comments from behind him.

He grips the red handlebars tightly, his fingers slippery with sweat from the sun beating across their backs.

“I wouldn’t.” John says softly but he doesn’t think he’s heard.

He finds himself wishing James would ride beside him but he keeps his distance, far enough away. This way feels as though John is nothing more than a chauffeur. He didn’t know what else he could possibly be at this point though. He had given his ruminations too much free-reign.

His annoyance is calmed a bit later when they are both sitting on the hot metal seats in the bustling bright city.

“So, what does one do around here?” James asks, leaning back and cringing from touching his bare arm to the blazing metal armrest.

“Dread when summer ends,” John answers simply because he doesn’t think James is up for anything else. He appears closed off and only responsive to pleasantries. Plus, John is young, he gets that and he suspects James might not think he can hold the type of intellectual conversations he enjoys.

“What about the winter? Wait for summer to come?” James asks with a smile, sweat glistens on his upper lip and he’s still wearing those sunglasses.

“Well, we only come here for Christmas in the winter otherwise it’s a ghost town.” John supplies and James looks confused.

“Christmas? I thought you were Jewish?” He appears almost temporarily disappointed and John squints at him.

“Well we are Jewish but as I said this place is dark and depressing anytime besides Christmas in the winter. Besides my family and I, you are probably the only other Jew to come to this place.” John replies and James nods silently contemplative.

He thinks the conversation has stopped there, that he hit a wall, that he somehow became too personal but after a moment James finally replies with, “I’m from a small town in England, I know what it’s like to be the odd one out.”

He thinks they are sharing expressions but those green eyes remain hidden from his view.

“What do you do around here?” James chances and John gives him an easy side smile.

“Read books, transcribe music, write, swim, ponder,” John replies and bites his lip before burning his arm on the armrest with a small scoff. James is laughing at him. Not openly but he can see the amusement in the flush of his cheeks.

He did read often but he needed to put that first on his list because he knew James writes books. It’s a subtle opening and he takes it.  

“I just finished writing a book on Heraclitus,” James replies softly and his voice sounds different than before, less formal and more wistful.

“The philosopher.” John comments and he waits to see a rude amount of surprise but there is none. Had James not underestimated him for his youth?

“ _’All entities move and nothing remains still’_ ” James recites and John immediately halts the bouncing of his leg. There’s a sudden forced stillness between them and John stands from the scalding seat.

“I’d like to take you to San Giacomo. We can walk to the top of the belfry.” John pushes and James stands from his seat as well but his expression is closed off again. He lost the grip of the tether that had been building between them.

James’ only response is, “Later.”

Charming bells resound around them, colorful, cheery but the demeanor feels far from that now. What had he said that was wrong? How had he backtracked?

They get back on their bikes without a word and John clumsily shifts sideways, knocking into James and almost toppling them over.

“Sorry..” He breathes and James presses his hand firmly against John’s back to help him upright. The heat of his palm burns through the thin material of his shirt. The exchange ends as quickly as it begins and James is already pushing off towards the roadway.

“I’ll be back at the house later.” He replies coldly which means ‘don’t follow’ and John sits there, his feet planted on the stone watching him disappear from view.

On the lone ride back he closes his eyes on purpose, hearing James' words echo ‘ _Don’t crash’_

“I won’t.” He whispers aloud before opening his eyes to the bright daylight.


	2. The Summer of "Swoon"

_‘where did you go?’_

John whispers to his mirrored reflection from the tangible shadow. His hair is wet and he’s holding a towel against his waist, having just stepped out of the shower. He’s always felt like an imposter staring back at himself from reflections. As if what stares back has never been him at all.

He hadn’t spoken to James in two days and it might as well have been two years. Yes, he’s being dramatic but he’s had to stop himself from demanding why it was that James suddenly found his company repulsive. He’s never cared enough about the other Six Week Guests but this one truly drives him mad. He knows he should probably develop an apathetic approach, they’d get through these weeks with bearable ease at that rate.

John’s plans crumble, however, when the door squeaks open and James steps sleepily inside the bathroom. His hair is a mess, his shorts are riding up his pale thigh and he squints at him in sudden realization.

“Oh..I should have knocked,” James says and awkwardly turns.

He’s tempted to snap at him for a reason he’s not ready to examine but he lacks the conviction to do so.

James didn’t leave the bathroom at first, he just stands there a moment, running his hand through his hair, his back facing away from him. Neither of them speak and after a moments breath James steps out of the steam of the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

\--

Out in the daylight of the property, there’s a volleyball net on the large plain of flat green grass beside the tree-lined drive. Madi and John had set it up the night before while passing a drink beneath the stars. They hadn’t spoken much but that was how they communicated, from knowing what the other is thinking.

John sat in the grass shirtless with his blue swim trunks on behind Madi and Max who observed the volleyball game with an excited fervor. Everyone had arrived from swimming in the lake, including James, who sported tight green shorts that gripped the top of his defined thighs and nothing else. John had spent time forcing his eyes away from the constellation of freckles across his back, his arms and his chest. He didn’t watch the sweat collect in the dip of his lower back or the bright smile he threw to Eleanor when she gained them a point.

Anne and Jack made up the other team. Although, Jack didn’t do much in terms of hitting the ball across the net, except perhaps posing in ponderous postures while Anne nearly drove the volleyball into James’ skull in retaliation.

“He’s better than the guy who came last year. Remember him?” Max comments, scrunching her nose.   

“He’s prettier at least. Can you get us some water, John?” Madi requests, brushing a bug off of her leg.

John stands to adjust his shorts and heads for the stand of water barefoot. The grass burns his feet uncomfortably like slick hot coals until he reaches the shade and grabs the carafe of water.  He turns to carry it back across the burning grass when James suddenly appears beside him, chest heaving, the tips of his hair damp in the sunlight with a smile and those sunglasses on his face. He takes the water from John without a word and drinks while resting his hand on John’s back. He’s so bewildered by the sudden attention that it takes him a moment to realize that James’ fingers are softly kneading his shoulder blade. 

A strange panic sets in that if he didn’t pull away he’d go pathetically pliant beneath such a simple touch. He slides away, a few inches from him, almost clumsily falling backward. His cheeks are aflame, burning up his face like embers.

“Sorry, you okay?” James questions and John moves his eyes back to the volleyball game attempting to appear stoic and not ridiculously tumbling in his thoughts.

“I’m fine…” He says and the awkward silence lingers between them before James hands him back the carafe of fresh water.

James opens his mouth to release something that could hold him prisoner. He knows that stepping away from his touch may have given James the wrong impression but he didn’t know how to fix it.

“James!” Eleanor calls and then like that he’s gone. John moves his eyes away from the game and heads for one of the dining tables beneath a canopy of groomed trees.

His mother is helping Charlotte fix the muted green tablecloth when she calls to him, “Will James be joining us for dinner?”

John steps on a sharp twig with a pained breath and keeps his back to her when he answers irritably, “And how exactly would I know?”

He walks off towards the confines of the house already feeling guilty, confused and utterly moronic. He scribbles across blank pages with a small pencil, asking if that’s what swooning feels like before the butterflies of anxiety.

In truth, John would have been like butter beneath James' fingers and why hadn’t he shown him that? Is it because he’s afraid? Would James laugh at him? Is he simply bored and John is easy to be entertained by?

He could deny that he longed to touch him as well. His thighs, his wrists, his skin.

He snaps the pencil by accident and tosses it angrily across his desk.

\--

That night a far away bell sings in the distance, something that later in life he will find he missed, he will find himself closing his eyes and imagining their song. He’ll look back at this summer of “swoon” and mark it as the happiest days of his life. His room. James’ room. The shared balcony over the terrace. The summer that John learned to love jogging because _he_ did. Learned to love Heraclitus because _he_ did. The summer when his senses had found a higher frequency, one above the rest, once dormant.

Now, though, his nineteen-year-old self is preoccupied. He’s changed his shirt at least four times and settles on a light pink button-up with jeans. He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and steps out into the warm night. There are fairy lights in the trees, hidden amongst the leaves. Candles lined the dining table beneath the archway of foliage and already people gathered in soft conversation. His father meets him on the drive with a small skip in his step as if he could sense that John is a need of cheering up.

At the table, however, remains an empty spot beside John, with an empty porcelain plate that he eyes tiredly. James isn’t coming to dinner. Is it because he pulled away? Or did he afford the touch too much significance? He bets on the latter. He suspects that he’s with Eleanor somewhere beneath the stars, they got along well at the volleyball game.

“He’s late,” John comments and sits back in his chair.

“Not if he never agreed to have dinner in the first place.” His mother wisely adds with the lift of her brow.

John sighs, “It’s arrogant.”

His father eyes him, pouring more wine to pass across the table, “I don’t think he’s arrogant. I think he’s shy. You’ll grow to like him.”

“What if I grow to hate him?” He blurts and his father presses his lips together.

Charlotte sets the roast on the table and his mother asks her to take James’ place setting away. He feels offended, peering over at the empty spot beside him.

He spends the remainder of the night sulking, his head in his hands, staring off into nowhere. Even when his mother asks him to play the piano he begrudgingly does so and gives them a depressingly slow tune. His father had tapped on his shoulder and said, “Something cheery, John.”

His whole life John has never been sure if he even likes Bach and yet he finds himself playing it most days. When he was seven and his father hired a piano teacher, she used to bring rice cakes with her and crunch on them as he played. Bach. Always Bach. She had white hair, pulled into a bun and always wore black laced dresses as if she stepped out of an 18th-century funeral march.

 _“You’re going to make a name for yourself.”_ She used to say as she crunched.

He wasn’t sure what that could mean at the age of seven but he played the erratic thrumming of Bach, like the language of his pounding heart.

He didn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning against his scratchy lump of a pillow. He kept thinking about stars, about lying in the grass with James and tracing each brilliant point of light with his fingertip. His cruel mind likes to replace that image with James laughing with Eleanor and sharing those intimate moments that feel like… _his_.

He watches the light brighten on his ceiling signifying the new morning and listens to the soft conversation drifting in from the orchard. His father is speaking about apricots to the groundskeeper. There’s the scraping clang of a bike far off but that could be anyone.

He thinks about James’ fingers on his shoulder, pressing into his skin as if he’s made to be molded by him and John’s hand slowly travels down his chest to his belly where the new heat pools. He imagines it’s James fingers reaching beneath the band of his shorts, his eyes closing, the tentative first touches of James’ palm like being lit up from the inside.

There’s a quick knock and suddenly his door bursts open. John sits up fast on a breath, grabbing the book which is upside down in his hands. James steps inside with a shy grin and John moves his knees up to hide his apparent arousal. His face is flushed, he feels exposed but James didn’t seem to notice or he pretends not to.

“Why aren’t you down with everyone by the river?” James asks and leans on the old metal footboard of his small bed. He isn’t wearing a shirt, he’s wearing those tight green swim trunks and that’s it. His necklace rests against his heart.

“I…have an allergy.” John lies and quickly turns the book right side up.

“Yeah? Me too.” James supplies in sarcasm and furrows his brow.

John moves his bare leg up from the bed, bending his knee and he catches James following the movement with his eyes before he says, “Why don’t we go swimming?”

John concentrates on the random page of the book he’s pretending to read and says with a nonchalant sigh, “Right now?”

“Yeah…” James moves closer and John begins to panic. The last thing he wants James to see is his arousal in full view.

“I’ll get changed and meet you downstairs.” John’s voice wavers on the last word and James doesn’t seem fazed by it. He nods in agreement before taking his leave. John listens to the footsteps grow further away and slams his head down onto the pillow with an exasperated curse, as he hits the bed with his fist.

\--

The pool on the property is small and elongated but beautifully constructed to appear natural with the stones covered in moss and the large backdrop of a faucet against an oval wall. It’s very Italian.

James gets inside the warm water that’s been heated by the sun and swims a few laps putting away thoughts to make room for more appropriate ones. He does his best thinking when he’s jogging or swimming, his head becomes clearer when he’s running from something invisible and he can lock things away. He comes up for air at the end of the pool against the faucet wall and sees John standing at the edge of the stone, his toes curving over, ready to dive in. He’s wearing the tiny blue swim trunks that hug his lean hips, leaving a pleasing opening of the expanse of tanned skin from his stomach to his chest, to his shoulders, to his collarbone. He wishes idly that he could snap a picture of it, the golden sun resting on his shoulders as if he’s Apollo himself.

He jumps into the pool, sinking like a stone and James does another lap before resurfacing beside him. John has this look like he can read him, crack open his spine like a book. He’s smiling the way he should be and James tries to mimic the expression. He used to smile like that when he was his age but isn’t that the way.

They both mirror each other and dive under the clear water, sinking to the bottom together. He opens his eyes to see the blurry world before him. The smudged surreal blue of John's eyes staring back. He looks like an out of focus painting. His curls fan out above his head in an ethereal fashion and rays of light caress his shoulders.

John reaches out, his slender wrist open to him and grabs James’ necklace. The Star of David resting in John’s palm as if he’s holding him in place.

It helps him recover from the misstep during the volleyball game. It was clear that James had frightened him and he tried to give him enough space to evolve the mistake into something resembling a friendship. The last thing he wishes to do is to make him feel uncomfortable.

John begins to swim to the surface and James follows suit, gulping in the fresh air above. The sun is kinder here in the water, it blinks at him softly through outstretched leaves. John does a lap to the faucet wall and then back to him, gliding through the water like a vibrant mirage.  

“Are you to start your first year of college?” James isn’t smooth with the transition but it works.

“After this summer, yes. Music major.” John supplies and moves the plastered wet hair out of his eyes.

James hums a laugh, “Of course, I heard you playing the piano the other night.”

He had listened to it drift from the open windows out into the orchard which he walked alone. It was his guide home. John looks surprised by that knowledge and says, “I tweak songs to fit my preference.”

“Ah, I knew Bach sounded a little different.” James comments and John squints at him with uncertainty.

“Did you hate it?” The young man asks and moves towards the edge of the pool as a cloud passes over the sun, blocking out the light temporarily. It feels as though he’s asking two separate questions in one.

“No, it was different,” James admits, answering those hidden thoughts for him.   

\--

John recognizes that he is exceptional at reading people, at understanding the inner workings of an individual before they themselves have come to terms with it but James Flint is a mystery.

 _The summer of “swoon”_ he writes in a scribble across the page. He curves it around other words like links in a chain; cogwheels.

Why hadn’t he gone down to the river?

To be with him. To be with _him_.

_‘Did you hate it?’_

_‘Do you hate me?’_

John knows he would be willing to yield if James pushed, that he already yielded.

He shoves the papers off his desk, the chaos landing on the floor; his thoughts trapped below his feet.

He’d play his guitar for him on the terrace, he’d attempt a naive seduction without knowing where the path leads. He pulls out a blank sheet of music and begins to revise a song just for that occasion.

Tomorrow brought a mild summer day meant for lying in the grass and pondering the existence of looming clouds. John is sitting on the stone bench beneath a tree wearing jean shorts and a blue tank top. James is lying in the grass, as he suspected he would, reading a book in a pair of yellow shorts that hug his legs. There’s a white strip down the middle seam that disappears between his thighs. His red hair falls down in a natural curl over his left eye and he purses his lips every time he seems to read a passage he enjoys. John watches his fingers flip the crisp pages; tracing over words like skin.

He rests the guitar in his lap and begins to play the tune he revised. Strumming his fingers comfortably along the chords as a bee buzzes by his curls.

“Sounds nice.” James compliments, holding open his book and he wonders if he was even reading at all.

John runs his fingers along the neck of the guitar and James requests, “Play it again.”

He smiles playfully and sets the guitar down before standing to head inside. James looks confused and sits up, knocking the grass from his hair before John calls, “Follow me.” Over his bare shoulder.

Once inside the house, John sits down at the piano in the living room and begins to play a pouncy Bach tune, not looking over at James when he enters the doorway. His shirt is unbuttoned, wide open and he can hear the flipflops pop when he walks. He plays the sample until it runs its course and turns to James who looks contemplative, resting his hand on the back of a chair.

“Not quite the same song on the guitar. I’m guessing you changed it?” James asks.

“I changed it a little bit.” John supplies, looking back at the sheet of music resting on the piano.

James moves his thumb to point behind him to the outside terrace and says, “Play that one again, the one you played outside.”

 John battles the smile that threatens to stretch his lips and begins to play it with emphasis while sliding across the keys. His entire body becomes part of the song, his fingers plucking out new sounds until the final note.

“You changed it again!” James exclaims with a huff and he almost sounds offended.

“I changed it a little bit,” John repeats in sly amusement. His fingers linger on the smooth keys, pressing softly but not making any sound.

James shakes his head, “And what is wrong with Bach? The way Bach wrote it originally?”

“Bach never wrote it for the guitar. In fact, it’s not certain that Bach wrote it at all.” John lectures and James throws up his hands with false expiration before stepping outside. The warm air permeates inside from the wide open door and John bites his lip to suppress more laughter.

He rests his hands gently on the keys and begins to play the original song that Bach wrote, slowly, steady which coaxes James back inside like a curious creature.  He plays until James slowly steps into the room with him and sits on the arm of the creaky chair behind him, listening intently. John’s smile feels new, invented from this moment. He’s had many listen to him play, but this feels intimate like all things with James seems to.

After he finishes playing, he runs his fingers over the keys silently once more, savoring the feeling of being irrevocably exposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty more tension ahead!
> 
> I hope you like it! Let me know what you think :)


	3. The Push-Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ask the water, ask the sand, ask the breeze.

There are things that live in the dust between thoughts, the places one wishes to visit that are left behind. What lives in those spaces when he isn’t occupying them? Are they stuck in that sunlight? Still waiting. The will he, the won’t he.

_Push. Pull._

John has fallen asleep in the sun in the patio chair beside the pool with his sunglasses on dimming the light. The soft sound of pages rippling in the wind is the only sound besides the incessant humming of cicadas.

“John?” James calls from across the pool and his voice is smooth like a dream

He’s lying on the edge of the water shirtless in green swim trunks and sunglasses to match John’s while holding up papers towards the sunlight.

John startles awake, his skin sufficiently scalding from the heat above.

“You sleeping?” James asks.

“I was,” John says grumpily. He blinks taking in the view of James lying at the side of the pool with his leg halfway dangling comfortably in the water, concentrating on the papers he holds in his hands. He looks like he was plucked from John’s mind; imaginarily beautiful.

“Read this drivel…” James starts, meaning his own writing and Silver stands from the seat to walk over to him. He nears his legs, taking in the landscape of skin beneath him. He’s tempted to walk closer still, to touch, to rest his hand where a bouquet of freckles disappears beneath the underside of his knee. He holds out the page to John and their fingers brush slightly before he takes it.

“Does that make any sense to you? It doesn’t make any sense to me.” James declares.

He crosses his ankles still on display before John passes the paper back to him and pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with the reply, “Maybe it did when you wrote it.”

There’s a short serene silence before a smile breaks out on James’ face.

“That might be the kindest thing anyone has said to me in months,” James confesses softly. He seems sincere and he’s staring up at him with earnest surprise.

John feels struck off balance but before anything else can be said James suddenly rolls over and splashes inside the pool, interrupting the newfound tension.

What did John want?

‘Friendship’ is what they are starting to attain but the definition of it rings hollow.

Perhaps he wishes for James to tell him that there is nothing wrong with him, that these thoughts are normal.

In truth, what John wants most of all is just to look up from his book on his patio chair and find James there, in his green shorts, freckled skin, sunglasses. To look up and find him there. For someday soon, he knows he’ll look up from his book and James will no longer be there.

\--

The party that’s nestled against the beach happens yearly every summer. It was something John used to look forward to. He used to dress up with Madi and they’d get drunk on the shore in the dark but it’s been a couple of years since they’ve done that. She knows his taste for it has waned but here they are again. Only this time James has joined them along with everyone else.

John sat with Jack and Madi at one of the white tacky lawn tables overlooking the dance floor with it’s flashing lights and live DJ.

“Why in the ever living hell do we still come here?” Jack complains from beside him. He’s wearing bright green sunglasses at night.  Anne and Max are out on the dance floor ignoring everyone but one another. To John’s relief, Eleanor is thoroughly interested in someone else that isn’t James but it doesn’t matter much because he catches a glimpse of him on the dance floor with _Idelle_.

“Oh! James and Idelle.” Madi comments as if it’s a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

“They’re just dancing,” John replies and decides now would be the best time to light a cigarette.

Idelle is wearing a tight blue dress, that swims down in a V against her neck to reveal ample cleavage. Her arms are wrapped around James’ shoulders and they are pressed close, seemingly enjoying themselves on the dance floor.

“Well, they are both currently highly sought after, makes sense,” Madi says with a shrug and John lets his cigarette dangle between his fingers collecting ash as he turns to look at her in confusion.

“James is highly sought after?” John questions and Madi nods raising her brow as if he should have this knowledge somehow.

“Uh, you’ve seen him right? New guy, older, handsome, of course he is.” Madi replies with a look of puzzlement.

John scoffs irritably while taking a short puff before grabbing Jack’s wine and drinking a long swig of it.

“Tastes like piss, enjoy!” Jack says with false cheer and leans back uncomfortably fidgeting in the metal seat.

“I can understand, Jack. He’s always like this but you….what is your problem, John?” Madi asks and her tone suggests she’s on the verge of moving beyond irritation.

John sighs releasing smoke from his lips, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t lie or tell her why and it isn’t enough, although he isn’t sure what to call the two of them. Madi and John aren’t exactly a couple anymore. They broke up a year ago but are still close and have casually slept together since then but John has been waiting for Madi to find someone she actually deserves.

He spots Idelle pressing herself closer against James as he shimmies to the high screech of the guitar and John drinks the rest of Jack’s wine. He puts out his cigarette and stands when the beat grows livelier.

“Where are you going?” Madi’s voice dipping into concern.

John holds out his hand to her in an attempt to hide his grumpiness and says, “Want to dance?”

“Fine but only if you actually enjoy yourself,” Madi replies and stands, tossing her purse at Jack who catches it before it smacks him in the face.

The dance floor is small, tacky and the dramatic switch of purpled hues didn’t help much with the aesthetic. Some of the plastic streams have fallen sideways and are being kicked around by unaware dancers. Young drunks that mostly consist of men, congregate around each other in a cloud of smoke on the far side like a toxic fog.

Dancing with Madi has always been enjoyable, she’s carefree and daring unlike he has been as of late. He releases her hands as they move apart to crash back together like the tide and it’s moments like this that the guilt sets in that he should love her like she deserves; that she should be loved by someone’s all.

He catches Flint’s eye as he moves in close beside both him and Idelle; the four of them mesh together on the dance floor.  It’s a blur at first of sweat and laughter. John takes hold of Madi and spins her before the four of them interlace fingers in a circle, John holding Idelle and Madi’s hands. James spinning in front of him like a streak of brilliant green, his eyes lit up and captured by John’s.

The music crescendos loudly vibrating their feet. Idelle and Madi begin to dance together while James steps closer to John, standing still in a small sea of movement.

A strand of hair has fallen across the bridge of John’s nose damp with sweat and they are both breathing heavily, close together but not touching. There’s a hooded unreadable intensity in James’ rosy complexion and they stand there sharing the others air. He feels like they’ve become a bonfire in the middle of the dance floor.

The song switches to a slow ballad and John parts his lips flustered. The moment feels defining and fragile like it’s close to being shattered. James steps back blinking as if he just woke from a dream, the moment cracking apart like a sheet of ice and crumbling at John’s feet. James flashes his eyes at John once more without uttering a word and promptly leaves the dance floor.

It feels as if John is suddenly tumbling in the dark, having lost his footing and falling into a harsh reality. He stumbles forward and pushes through the crowd searching for the red hair and broad shoulders but he’s gone as if he was never there at all.

The cool night air should be a relief against John’s sweaty skin but it isn’t. He feels trapped in his body, held to the sand, unable to move or leave when what he wanted now was to run. Run away like James did, to some dark unexplored corner of the map.

It’s true, John wants things from James but these things keep multiplying when he hoped they’d vanish altogether. What’s he to do?

Later in the night in that space where time seems meaningless, he finds himself passing a wine bottle back and forth with Jack on the dark beach.

“You ever just wish to find the horizon?” Jack asks and takes a sloppy swig. His green sunglasses are resting lopsided in his hair. Their legs are both stretched out in front of them in the sand.

“By boat?” John asks and motions for him to give the bottle back.

“Of course, John, to sail out into that blue.” Jack lifts his hand out to sea, clearly drunk.

They both sit there in silence for a moment, mirroring the other and Jack yawns wide, blinking towards the crashing waves in front of them.

“I think there is something wrong with me,” John says quietly and sets the green bottle which is almost empty in the sand between them.

Jack turns to him, his glasses flopping down his face, “Wrong? Wrong how?”

He isn’t about to spill his whole heart no matter how drunk he is, so he settles, “I never quite fit into these spaces. As if I’m just meant to observe and not participate.”

“You’re an outlier like me, like Anne but we make do with pretending, do we not?” Jack asks and then flops down into the sand with his arms behind his head. He kicks off his flip-flops and John smiles before mimicking his position in the sand.

The stars are a vivid field of light. There are a million stories told from them, each reaching down to whisper and revive once more.

He had spooked James but he thought he’d perhaps seen a spark of something. Has he truly lost his mind? Seeing things that aren’t actually what was implied? Or had James run off because of that very fact, that they shared an attraction?

Either way, John feels bitter about it, he’s angry at himself for being tangled up in him, he’s angry at James for stepping into his life as if he’s always been there.

John peers over at Jack who has apparently passed out, if the loud huffs of breath are any indication.

\--

Sometime in the night within John’s hazy drunken memory, he had scrawled James’ several times across his palm with a pen. It isn’t until he blinks his eyes open in front of the mirror in the bathroom that he notices that mistake.  He had slept with his hand pressed to his face and sees with certain horror that James’ name has now bled onto his face.

He curses under his breath and immediately grabs a cloth to begin scrubbing at the skin. He repeats the process of wetting the cloth and screaming quietly at himself for the better part of thirty minutes before the lettering is mostly gone from his reddened cheek.

Downstairs, he finds James with his own brand of hangover sitting at the table out on the terrace lightly tapping on an egg with a spoon. They are uncomfortably quiet, each awkwardly grabbing for the same peach and then pulling their hands away. The anger from last night hasn’t lessened, if anything it’s settled in his ribs.

“Went skinny dipping with Madi last night.” John bluntly lies. James’ spoon slips and spills yolk onto his fingers, which he tentatively licks away.

John is grateful to be able to see his tired eyes that aren’t surprisingly covered by sunglasses. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki shorts. There’s a new sun-kissed red to his pale skin that’s not quite a sunburn yet.

His father steps out of the doorway with contained excitement in his smile, “I just heard from the people in Sirmione, they say they’ve found something.”

His mother who is gripping a basket of apricots shields her eyes from the rays and chimes in, “Oh, fantastic!”

“I’m going there today, would you like to come along?” His father asks, glancing at James who looks up from demolishing his egg.

He chews for a moment and replies, “I would love to.”

His father sits down to join them and John scratches his head nervously before leaning forward to ask, “Can I come too?”

“As long as James doesn’t mind.” His father says and grabs the paper to gawk at but no less putting James on the spot.

There’s only silent chewing and John rips the stem off of a cherry on the verge of leaping from the table to run off into the orchard. He could live there inside the orchard, become a wild hermit, never look upon that freckled skin again.

“Of course. What’s been dug up?” James finally speaks and John slowly lifts his eyes to observe him but he isn’t looking at John. He’s staring at his egg.

“Nothing has been dug up, it’s been brought up out of the water.” His father says emphasizing the action with the motion of his hands.

\--

Lake Garda which rests against the slumbering Pale Mountains known as the Dolomites have been something from his childhood, a shimmering daydream that he likens to myths of Gods and Goddesses.

It’s a few minutes before they head for Lake Garda and John Is leaning out of the open shuttered window of the bottom floor when he hears the tiny ding of a bike bell. Idelle approaches, wearing a summery olive dress that fans out at her waist like a ballet dancer.

“What is John Silver up to?” She asks with a sardonic grin.

John leans over the desk nearly toppling over a pile of his mother’s books, “We’re going to Lake Garda with my dad, he wants to take James there.”

“Can you tell him I came by?” She asks, leaning forward over the handlebars. Her dark hair rests beautifully on her shoulders.

John had always liked Idelle but the thought of losing James to her brought out that new spark of jealousy he’s been trying to contain like a wildfire.

He nods slowly, afraid if he answers he’ll show his cards.

“He’s a good dancer.” She comments moving her shoulders side to side as if she’s been transported back to last night.

“He is.” Is all John can muster and he absently touches the tops of the books resting on the desk.

“See ya then.” She calls before looping her bike around twice and leaving with a small wave. John grabs his sunglasses from the desk and slips them on before heading out to the car.

He opens the rear door and leans against the roof when he spots James stepping outside to join him. He glances quickly at John before opening the passenger door to sit inside.

“Usually the person who navigates sits up front and Mr. De Groot normally navigates for us,” John says snippily and James squints at him picking up on his grumpiness. He opens the door to the backseat instead.

“Idelle came by, she told me to tell you,” John says tilting his chin at him and James finally glances at him again.

“Thanks.” He replies stoically and gets inside the tight backseat. John joins him, shutting the door as his arm brushes his.

“She’s beautiful, count yourself lucky.” John continues to prod. He isn’t sure why he’s poking the issue but he’s angry at James for his apathetic silence and for leaving him without an explanation on the dance floor. Perhaps if he was Idelle that wouldn’t have happened.

“I thought you and Madi…” James throws it out there like a question but it hangs in the air awkwardly.

“We aren’t together, we’re close but..”

_She deserves better._

John also cuts himself off.

His father peers into the car from the driver’s window and eyes the two of them, “What’s going on boys?”

James shakes his head to signify all is well when it clearly isn’t and his father says, “Mr. De Groot won’t be joining us. James, I’m going to need you to be my navigator.”

“What?!” John squawks offended and James gives him a quick wink before getting out of the backseat.

\--

The daylight holds the landscape in an embrace here within the countryside. John has his window rolled down and his hand floating freely in the wind that caresses his hair. His sunglasses are still on, guarded against the sharp flashes of light from the side mirror.

They pass by Brescia and John spots the green dome of the city center reaching out to the cloudless sky.

He taps on the side of the car and turns to catch James staring at him from the rearview. He didn’t move his eyes away as John thought he would and he meets his stare head on. John removes his sunglasses as they jostle over a bump in the road but neither relent.

What was this? Moments like these? Can they even be defined?

There are clear moments when John thinks James believes he is something worthy to be examined and other times he’s not sure if James knows he’s there at all. Which is which? But John knows with certainty that he lives between those moments when James’ eyes meet his.

They reach the ruins by the lake that rest in the foreground like a halo and behind it, blue water spans out into a stunning vast plain of stillness. The quiet semitones of surrealism is something to bask in as they walk the ruins leading to the water.

There are crumbling pillars lined up inside the light stone walkway and James follows behind his father while John hangs back walking on the other side of the pillars. He catches blips of James walking before he disappears behind another one. It’s a playful sort of observation. He catches up to their feet and then slows down, watching James appear and then disappear behind ancient rock walls.

Beyond the ruins lies the white rocky sand of the beach against the lake and there lifted from cloth and presented to them is an arm that had broken off from an ancient statue. His father holds it delicately, showing it off to both of them.  The detail is still incredibly evident, especially in the likeness of the fingers. His father passes it to James who carefully accepts, twisting it slightly in the sunlight. His hand running over the wrist and up to the palm of the slender stone fingers.

John smiles to himself before holding out his hand towards the stone palm that James has a hold of.

“Shake?” He requests and James stares at him for a moment as if he’s lost his mind.

John feigns an exaggerated frown while leaving his hand outstretched and James sighs as he presses the stone palm into John’s. They carefully shake on it and both share a fleeting brand of laughter before his father calls them to the boat.

\--

The cerulean water softly laps against the rowboat as John shifts, pressing his shoulder against James.

“The ship carrying this statue went down in 1827, gossip has it that it was a gift from a count to his male lover. There were four known sets. This fellow is at number three.” His father announces in the boat and John watches in awe beside James as bubbles begin to rise from the water beside them. 

He spots the beginnings of the statue being raised into the rays of the sun through the clear water and up to breathe the fresh air once more. It’s beautifully intact, with its arm raised to its chiseled curls, bare-chested and staring up into forever. He’s never seen his father smile so wide and James is utterly enraptured with an awestruck grin of his own to match.

Once on the shore with it resting beneath the open deep blue of the sky, they can observe the intricate detail of the eyes, the nose, the neck, the shoulders. Both John and James are on either side of it and he observes James reach out wistfully touching the curls of the statue. He runs his fingers down its cheek to the curve of its lips and caresses his index finger there in thought-provoking melancholy.

“We have enough time for a swim.” His father says and John has the beginnings of a smile.

\--

Years from now, John will come back here and think on this moment he knew he’d never forget. A small thing, perhaps insignificant to most. He’ll stand there and ask the sand, ask the water, ask the breeze to help him remember someone named James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will change the rating to Explicit. I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am writing it!
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr @brassfannibal for piratey things and updates! Thank you :)


	4. Monet's Berm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To speak or to die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where the story begins its explicit turn ;)

His fingers twitch quietly on the piano keys as a soft bell sings in the distance. He had a song in his head to play but his fingers held him back, they itched for something else, someone else. He imagined an expanse of sun-kissed skin instead of keys. What song would he play?

He suddenly shuts the lid to the piano, cracking apart the daydream and ignoring the pieces that lingered in his mind leftover.

James had been gone all day and he wasn’t at breakfast. Instead of basking in the warmth given to him, John had spent breakfast staring at the empty seat that had somehow become James’, he now owned that seat as if his name is etched in the wood somewhere invisible.

He walks up the stairs, running his hand over the smooth railing before stopping at James’ shut door, _his_ shut door. There’s a soft sound of a shudder creaking open that echoes in the hallway and he pushes open the door. Inside not much has changed. The light glides fragmented across the furniture and James has respectfully left his things untouched to his dismay. There on the bedpost however, is a pair of green swim trunks, the snug ones James usually wore, dried but not exactly clean.

He lets the door swing shut behind him and cringes when it slams. He shouldn’t be in here and he shouldn’t be walking over to the green shorts to run his fingers over the material. He shouldn’t grab them from the bedpost and crumple them in his hands to watch the material fan out again. He shouldn’t escape into his room with them and he shouldn’t collapse onto his bed holding the shorts to his face to breathe him in. But he does.

He lets his bottom lip drag against the material and breathes beyond the scent of the pool to something headier.

_James._

He’s already exceptionally hard from this simple action. It’s utterly intoxicating and at this point, he couldn’t give a damn if James walked in to find his shorts missing. He’d be brave enough in this moment to ask, to want. He thumps back onto his bed and pushes his hand beneath the waistband against his skin.

He pulls James’ shorts over his head and bites the material lining the seam of the crotch before running his hand lightly over his cock. The scent of him is now blissfully all around him. He slowly curls his fingers over the shaft and begins to languidly pump. He imagines he’s opening his mouth to a freckled shoulder blade and tasting the sweat from the day collect on his tongue. He imagines what he’d sound like, quiet low-throated moans that pull his own muffled mimic of them free. He darts his tongue out to meet the rough material and can imagine his pale throat beneath it. He imagines it’s James that grips him, pulling him slowly apart, molding his hand over the slick head because John needs him to. He slides his lips up to the top seam of the shorts, imagining what he tastes like, warm, sharp sting and flushed in John’s mouth as he presses James’ cock against his tongue. He imagines the way James lips would part on a final groan and all the coruscating flavors he’d receive against his throat. He wants more than anything to taste him, to be allowed to, to be the one to see him come apart because of him. To have James want to take him apart, to press inside John like he’s worth melding into. To touch him as reverently and evocatively as he caressed that statue on the beach. To know he can invoke such a brilliant form of awe. His breath hitches and he moves his head back breathing that fading heady scent deeply. He pumps faster, his thumb dancing over the head until he reaches the peak.

 _‘What do you want, John?_ ’ He imagines James’ warm voice pressed against his ear.

“To touch me, to never stop touching me.” John breathes, his tone wrecked as he suddenly arches back and comes; the shorts pressed tight against his mouth.  

\--

Thunder rumbles, darkening the sky with heavy gray clouds. It’s a symphony of sound before the rain begins to fall.

John puts the shorts back where he found them even if he wishes to keep them, hidden somewhere beneath his bed like a strange keepsake.

James still hadn’t come home and it’s pouring out, splashing against the windows from a gust of wind. John steps out onto the balcony they share to the echoing loud fall of it, collecting in the mud. He spots the groundskeeper dashing through the orchard to an overhang.

He’s never done that before, taken something of someones like that. He feels dirty, marked in his skin as if he should feel ashamed. This isn’t normal, is it? What’s wrong with him?

He heads downstairs as the lights flicker and spots his parents sitting in the living room with candles already lit as if they prophesized the thunderstorm.

“Come and sit.” His father says, both of them reading quietly comfortable. John steps into the room and tosses a glance at the grand black piano that rests in shadow. The lights buzz once again as he sits down in a stiff velvet red chair that resembles something that could’ve sat collecting dust in a King’s bedchamber.

His mother smiles at him and holds her book up to say, “This one is in German but I can translate.”

He leans back giving her a small shadowed smile and his father sets down his book to listen intently.

“A handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess and she too is in love with him, though she’s unaware of it. Despite the _freundschaft_ (friendship) that blossoms between them or perhaps because of that very friendship, the young knight finds himself humbled speechless and unable to bring up the subject of his love.” She flips the page, squinting at the next. John glances down at his bare toes that hug the carpet and the shame from earlier is like the thunderstorm itself.

“One day he asks the Princess, is it better to speak or to die?”

John feels as though roots have sprung up and wrapped around his ankles, holding him to the ground, to the chair, to this house. The power suddenly flickers out completely, leaving the dancing candles their only light.

“I’ll never have the courage to ask a question like that,” John says softly.

His father huffs and removes the large reading glasses he’s wearing, “John…you can always talk to us.” 

“I know.”

They sit there in the flickering silence as the thunder continues to rumble overhead, shaking the windowpanes in the room. A snap of lightning lights up the darkness for a moment and John thinks he’s been caught by one; a lightning bolt.

\--

By the next day, the sun has already evaporated the rainwater as though the storm had been a figment of their imagination.

James rests his legs half submerged at the edge of the pool and he looks down at his toes distorted under the water. He thinks of the statue resting in the warm sand of the beach. A statue that struck him because of its uncanny resemblance to John. He couldn’t reach out and touch him so he studied the statue with his fingers.

“James..” The familiar voice says and he looks up to see the professor’s son giving him a smile from beside the pool. John is wearing a blue button up over his shoulders that hangs open to reveal his tan lean chest and dark blue shorts that rest loosely against the tops of his thighs. His hair is a beautiful mess of curls that the wind tosses around. He’s holding sunglasses and twisting them in his fingers idly.

“ _Ruining_ more Bach? I heard you playing before the rainstorm.” James admits and John bites his bottom lip in thought before slumping down into one of the white nondescript patio chairs.

“Nothing permeant, I didn’t write that one down this time.” He replies before slipping his sunglasses on.

The birds lilt between their silences and James studies his distorted feet beneath the water once more.

“My mom’s been reading this 16th-century romance..” John leaves it open-ended, hanging in the air between them.

“About the knight that doesn’t know whether to speak or die?” James asks because Mrs. Mapleton had mentioned it to him in passing.

“Yeah, that’d be the one,” John says quietly and he can hear him scribbling on a notepad. The scratching sound of the pencil is a soothing background to the brilliantly bright day. It tells James that he’s there in the periphery, unguarded and open for conversation.

“So, does he speak or doesn’t he?” James asks.

The scribbling stops and John replies, “Better to speak, the princess said.”

James follows the path of a happy bee having left the lavender that rests smudged against the tall grass.

“ _Does_ he speak?” James repeats softly.

“No.”

James feels the weight of that ‘No’ sink against his shoulders until he glances finally at John who meets his stare back. “I have to go to town to pick some things up,” James states with a sigh and adds a smile to his expression to temper the crestfallen tension.

“I can go for you if you like.” John tentatively offers and sets down his notepad.

James swings his legs out of the water and stands, pressing his bare feet to the sun-bleached grass, “Well, why don’t we go to together?”

John appears surprised, “Right now?”

“Yep, right now, unless of course, you have more important business going on.” James teases and slowly approaches him.

John purses his lips while looking up at him from behind his sunglasses and James would have to say that the mocking smile that rests on his lips is one of his favorites of his. He isn’t sure exactly when he began ranking John’s smiles but he ignores the nagging strangeness for a moment to bask in it subtly.

John grabs a small yellow backpack from behind the chair and shoves his Walkman and notebook inside. James snatches the pile of papers he’s been grumpily glaring at all day, “Mind if I put this in your bag?” John holds it open while he tosses his head to the side to knock the curls from his eyes. James knows he shouldn’t blatantly stare even if John didn’t seem to mind because that’s how these things start. A touch, a look, a smile and with John it’s altogether something else entirely that he refuses to properly acknowledge.

He hops on one foot slipping his flip-flops on and they both head over to grab their bikes.

“I fell in the storm when I was coming home and caught my side on a ledge. De Groot insisted on applying some sort of witch’s brew to it.” James says and stops the bike to lift his light green button up to reveal the purpled gash at the bottom of his ribs.

John makes a hiss of pain at the sight and adjusts his sunglasses. James shrugs before opening one of the side doors to the gate freeing them to the roadway to Bergamo. The sound of soft mooing from the cows in the distance is their farewell before beginning their ride.

\--

John observes the sunlight blink between the branches before it opens wide to the sky. This time James rides beside him and John has to school his face to stop from beaming at him. Instead, he lifts his arms wide to the light as if it can embrace him and closes his eyes to let the wind take him.

_To speak or to die._

The truth is already there, all around them, and John is entrammeled enough to let himself believe that releasing it may not be such an impossible thing. A minute of grace. The sun has given him a new form of bravery and he’ll use it before the warmth leaves him.

In Bergamo, he observes the townsfolk sit in rickety straw thatched chairs and meander around the square lazily with tired expressions. James had stepped into a pink building to buy cigarettes and appears again, his hair falling into his eyes as he holds out one to John. He takes it kindly, resting it between his lips and James steps up close, catching a hint of sweat as he cups his hands to light it for him. He takes a slow drag on purpose as James is observing him and leans back against the handlebars; his adam's apple bobbing. “I didn’t know you smoked,” John prods with the lift of his brow. “Only socially,” James admits and John narrows his eyes at him from beneath his sunglasses.

_If one were to peer into the future, they’d spot a lone figure standing by the memorial thinking back on the very conversation he’s about to have. Those words echoing back from past to present._

“So, World War II eh?” James asks and gestures casually towards the memorial.

John runs his hands through his hair and corrects, “No, that’s World War I.”

James squints, leaning on the fence to read the plaque glistening in the sun, “I never heard of the Battle of Piave.”

“Battle of Piave was one of the most lethal battles of World War I, around one hundred and seventy thousand people died. Every small town in Italy has a similar memorial.” John replies, staring up at the statue above blinding him in the light.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” James deadpans and walks to the other side of the fence. They are now on opposite sides of the memorial like reflective parallels.

“I don’t really know much.” John supplies with a hint of defeat. He could have pretended to be an encyclopedia of sorts but he lacked the will to form the lie. He rests his foot on the looping curve of a spiral within the fence’s design and looks back at James who is studying him with a new intensity.

“You seem to know more than anyone else around here.” James compliments from across the way.

John steps up once on the fence and then back down again, it’s his way of fidgeting without appearing nervous, “If you only knew how little I know about the things that matter.”

“What _things_ that matter?” James asks, resting his hands on the fence and they slowly begin to walk around; still paralleled on either side.

“You know what things.” John finally says. _Things_ like wanting James to touch him, to take him apart, to open his eyes, to reach inside him, to know him. They stare at each other, far apart but recognizing the thing they’ve yet to acknowledge aloud. It’s a rope releasing a sail out into the wind to drift, it is both exhilarating and terrifying at once.

“Why are you telling me this?” James questions, feigning confusion.

He takes a moment and runs his hand over the top of the fence as they walk, literally circling one another.

“Because I thought you should know,” John answers and knows he’s being irritating.

“Because you _thought_ I should know?” James repeats slowly, his expression pinched. He’s trying so hard to appear as if what he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. However, John found he enjoyed it when James repeats what he says as a question or a statement, it’s as if he wants to form the same words, to connect in that subtle way he usually does.

 _“_ Because I wanted you to know,” John confesses. James shakes his head and moves behind the statue out of sight and John whispers to himself, “ _Because I wanted you to know.”_

_Because I wanted you to know._

They finally meet at the back of the memorial; two parallels intersecting like an invisible line.

“Because there’s no one else I want to say this to but you.” John continues and James eyes him suspiciously.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” James questions cryptically and John watches the sun capture his green eyes, revealing a golden olive hue.

John slowly nods and James studies his face openly, before sliding his eyes to his lips, to his collarbone, and he can feel the warmth already pool in his throat, heavy against his tongue.

“Don’t go anywhere, stay here.” James insists before stepping away from him and heading into one of the nondescript open doorways of a yellowed building.

John takes the time to light another cigarette casually, his hand slightly shaking. What was he doing? What was this back and forth?

He looks up to the green dome, rising high above ready to touch the hazy daylight. John softly whispers to himself, “I’m not going anywhere.”

A few minutes later, James comes out of the building holding his stack of papers and searching through them with a frustrated shake of his head.

“They mixed up all of my pages, I’m going to have to retype this whole thing. This is going to set me back a whole day.” James complains with a soft sigh and John smirks at him scrunching his nose before finishing his cigarette.

He can feel the ball of anxiety resting between his ribs and he says, “I shouldn’t have said anything earlier.”  

James irritably answers, “Just pretend you never did.”

“Oh, I see how it is then,” John replies with a false smile because he can pretend it doesn’t hurt to hear it, he’s good at pretending when he wants to. James stops his brisk walk to crowd John’s space which vanishes his smile completely.

“We can’t talk about those kinds of things.” James whispers and John blinks at him, their faces a few inches apart that only a strip of light can shine through. “We just can’t.”

James moves behind him to unzip his backpack mechanically and shove the papers inside. The façade of appearing unfazed is quickly waning.

John briskly walks from him and gets on his bike a moment later, taking off as James calls after him. This is part of the game.

He peddles through the smooth roadway surrounded by light on either side and James is quickly gaining on him. It’s a race without being declared as one and it isn’t long before James is beside him breathless, “Where exactly are we going?” He questions loudly. John had decided to take him to the spot where he never takes anyone, where he only goes to read alone; an oasis of thought.

They're a blur against the horizon of greens and yellows as if they’ve become a part of the landscape. They ride on a separate dirt path wrapping around a smattering of lavender beneath the trees. He throws his bike down, along with his backpack beside it and removes his shoes.

“Come on,” John calls and guides him down a small grassy hill that leads to a pristine clear pond.

It’s Monet’s Berm and surrounding it are olive trees that sway in the cool breeze. It’s the kind of quiet one can only imagine; the best spot he’s found between the orchard and the city.

John slides down the hillside and steps into the shallow water that reaches halfway up to his knees and trudges inwards. The water is freezing in the shade but he’s grown used to the shock of it. He removes his sunglasses and relays, “This is my spot. I come here to read, I can’t tell you the number of books I’ve read here.”

James remains on the shore observing him before stepping down slowly into the water himself. He lets out a surprised gasp, “Shit, it’s freezing!”

John presses his lips together with a crumpled smile and walks towards the sunlight through the water.

“The water swims straight down from the mountains.” He says and playfully kicks the water outwards towards James splashing him with it and he expects a reprimand, but James retaliates, flicking the water back with a reserved thrill. He’s holding himself back.

“I like the way you say things, I don’t know why you are always putting yourself down,” James says kindly out of nowhere and John feels his grin falter once again. He’s seen through his pitiful disguise of confidence, it shouldn't surprise him.

“So you won’t put me down, I suppose,” John says with a shrug.

James tilts his head in thought at him, “Are you that afraid of what I think of you?”

John trudges through the water towards him, pushing beyond those invisible boundaries James attempted to set. It’s as if they are back on the dance floor again, only now under the sun without the protection of the dark. He’s close enough to see the gold in James’ eyes.

“You’re making things very difficult for me,” James admits before moving away from him and climbing out of the pond to rest in the grass. John follows after him, dripping across the bushes and collapsing beside him, rolling over as they both lie there looking up through the thick leaves.

Not only is John opening another door by bringing him here, he is silently asking this world of his to let him in, so that this place can get to know him, so that John might come back here and remember.

“Why am I making things difficult?” John questions, his heart is beating too fast.

“Is this where Monet came to paint?” James asks, ignoring the question entirely.

He feels a pang of anger at that but doesn’t push further. John sighs, “I have a book of the reproductions in the area. I can let you borrow it.”

James sits up, his head resting in his hand and he’s looking down at John. The tension molds into something else beyond hidden reservation to an opening within the proverbial tunnel. John searches his eyes seeing the battle beneath his features and the moment he starts to give in. There’s a piece of grass in James’ hair and John reaches out to grab it but James gently snatches his wrist, holding it there in the light like something delicate. His thumb lightly slides over the pulse point as if he wishes to know what this simple action does to John.

He swallows, trying to appear calm as James’ fingers make a ring around his wrist and slowly move downwards towards his elbow. He’s asking permission but John recognizes he can’t voice it.

“You can touch…me.” John quietly encourages. His heart feels as though it could crack apart his chest.

James reaches over as he did the statue on the beach and runs his fingers lightly over John’s sweaty curls, moving them back adoringly from his forehead. His breath hitches, he didn’t dare move. James slides his fingers down his cheekbone to his lips and lightly swipes his finger over the bow of them, tickling the sensitive skin and causing John to open his mouth on a smile. James moves his fingers beneath John’s chin to turn his face towards him, inviting him to sit up and invade his space.

John complies with the silent invitation and sits up, bumping his nose with James’, his curls meshing against James’ forehead.

“You unravel me so easily. I don’t know why that is.” James speaks softly reaching out and resting his palm on John’s cheek. John closes the breath of a distance between their lips and captures his. It’s as if he’s resting his mouth against a soft ripe peach, only warm and pliant. James huffs a laugh before slipping his tongue softly between John’s lips. He lets him in and it’s an awkward slow ease of recognition through awareness. He’s trembling slightly from the effort and he hates himself for being unable to quell it.

John moves forward needing more of him, wanting to touch but his movement breaks the spell. James suddenly turns away, breaking their mouths apart with a mantra of ‘No’s’. John turns away too, pressing his fingers to his lips to preserve the tingling delirium leftover.

“Better now?” James asks as if such a thing just needs to get out of their systems. Since he got a taste, John will never be ‘ _better now’_.

“We should go.” James declares abruptly and sits up, his knees bent and thighs spread towards the field. John sits up beside him and attempts to speak but is interrupted, “I know myself and we’ve been good, we haven’t done anything to be ashamed of and that’s a good thing. I want to be good.” James continues as if he’s trying to convince himself.

How does John convey that all he wants is the sun, the grass, the breeze, the smell of him, his body beside his, from his chest, his knees, his thighs, his fingers. He wants to be molded into him, turned inside out, given a blindfold, a guide, his hand, to be shown.

John attempts a sly smile and reaches forward bravely, running his hand down the inside of James' thigh towards the obvious bulge. James doesn’t flinch, he just stares at him calmly, keeping his composure in an almost glacial manor.

“Am I offending your sensibilities?” John asks, darkly and James reaches down to rest his palm on John’s hand for a moment, twining their fingers before lifting his hand away.

“Just don’t,” James adds with a strained smile before standing from the grass. The moment had been broken. The warmth and bravery John had received from the sun has now evaporated.

James winces and lifts his shirt to peer at the gash at his side which sports a dark red tint within the purple.

“I think it’s starting to get infected.” James guesses, moving towards the light.

“Stop by the pharmacist on the way back?” John asks quietly and grips the grass idly between his fingers. It’s the most sobering thing they could have said. It let the real world sweep back inside when he didn’t wish it to. It wasn’t invited here.

James nods without glancing back at him and heads for their bikes resting in the shade of the plain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what ya think :)


	5. Between Always and Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for you, in silence

Animated voices lift high above the orchard, carrying into the trees toward the high noon sun. Below on the terrace, two guests of John’s parents sit at the table in constant conversation.

John sits across from them, his face smooshed grumpily against his hand, watching their mouths move but not really listening. His mother attempts to get a word in but it’s useless. They’re focused on arguing politics with one another futilely. James sits diagonally from him at the head of the table and nods his head every few seconds, completely lost. He won’t look at John, he hasn’t looked at John since Monet’s Berm.

He had awoken the next day pressing his fingers to his lips until the sensation faded away. He lied there in his bed beside James’ room and he wondered if he still felt the burn of it too.

John slips his barefoot from his sandal and slowly slides it along the stone beneath the table watching the excited conversation absently. His foot reaches James’ flimsy sandal as he gently moves his toes on top of his, pressing into the skin. James stiffens, keeping a small polite smile on his lips in case anyone graced him with attention. He moves his toes slowly to his ankle and softly up his leg. James jolts, hitting his knee against the underside of the table and the conversation ceases for an embarrassing moment.

James clears his throat, “sorry…please continue.”

John presses his lips together to stifle a grin before the conversation rambles onwards unaware of their exchange. He pulls his foot back but to his surprise, he feels James’ toes suddenly connect with his. He slides his eyes over to him and James appears completely enthralled by the conversation in statue-like falsity. John is caged to this spot at the table as James tentatively moves his foot on top of his, softly gliding forward. John’s toes shift to James’ ankle again and he rests them there, pressing down like a pulse. Is this them being good in James’ eyes? As long as it doesn’t move beyond these simple touches?

The arch of James’ foot moves on top of John’s again, gently pinning it to the stone. The feel of it seems innocent enough but John can read the twitch of James’ features like an old familiar book. He glances down at his empty porcelain plate, reveling in that small fleeting connection of skin. Speckles of red suddenly stain the white of the plate. John observes confused for a moment until he feels the warm liquid falling from his nose. He quickly crumples the nearest napkin and rests it against his nostrils.

“John…are you okay?” His mother calls, interrupting the conversation. His cheeks heat up when the voices silence and he stands quickly from the table with a soft ‘fine’ as he rushes out of sight. He almost trips over the rug that lies crooked in front of the kitchen before disappearing into the food storage room. He reaches into the icebox and fills the napkin with cubes before setting it to his leaking nose again. His hands are shaking, he feels misplaced.

It’s as if he’s experiencing sensory overload and that the last few days are finally catching up with him. The exhilarating anxiety of it is a spiral that lingers. Everything with James lingers. His lips on his, his hand in his, the arch of his foot pinning his.

John slowly slides down the wall with a tired sigh, holding the freezing napkin as he shuts his eyes. The push-pull won’t last forever, this spiral won’t last forever. He finally allows himself to count the days James has left with them.

Four more weeks. One Month. Then he’s gone.

He can already hear the ticking of a clock from another room mocking him with its consistency. Would he still feel the press of his skin? How does one hold onto a feeling? Would it be trapped here in this landscape?

\--

James slowly stands from the dining table as the conversation continues unabated and motions to Professor Gates that he’s taking his leave temporarily. He steps into the kitchen spotting Charlotte looking flustered while soaking the dishes.

“He’s through there,” she says and points to a door against the kitchen wall without even glancing over at him. How could she possibly know he was looking for John?

“…thanks.” He states sheepishly and pushes open the creaky small door leading to what appeared to be a large food storage room.  He softly shuts it behind him and moves in front of a bag of potatoes that blocks his view. John is sitting against the wall with his eyes closed, holding the bloodied napkin to his nose. His knees are up and he’s barefoot.

“John…?” James asks and he startles blinking his eyes open to look at him. He says nothing as if stunned silent, his blue eyes scanning his and James moves to slide down the wall in front of him.

“I’m a mess.” John declares and his soft voice wavers. His bare feet slide toward him and slightly press into James’ thigh.

James reaches out and gently rests his hand on John’s bare leg. It’s meant to be encouraging but his fingers caress the skin, sliding down to his ankle. The way John is watching him with such vulnerability tears a hole in his resolve. He’s treading the line again but John needs to feel grounded and that seems to matter more to him now than the boundaries he’s set. He grabs John’s ankle and lifts his foot into his lap as he releases an amused huff.

His nose has stopped bleeding and the pink redness from his eyes is fading. James begins to lightly caress the arch of his foot, which makes John fidget, but he doesn’t dare pull away. Instead, John reaches forward for James’ necklace which dangles out of his shirt, his fingers linger on his chest as he examines the gold star.

“I used to have one of these.” He reminisces warmly.

“You used to?” James ventures and presses down on John’s toes with his fingers, the heel of his foot resting on his bare thigh. “How come you never wear it?”

“My mother says we are Jews of discretion,” John parrots and James crinkles his nose. He runs his fingers over John’s ankle to his heel.

“Well…I’m sure that works for your mother,” he concludes with a smirk. John runs his hand up James’ shoulder again as if reaching for the necklace once more but his warm fingers dance softly across his neck.

“You’re going to kill me,” John dramatically notes but he has a smile still resting on his face.

“I should hope not,” James replies aptly and lifts John’s foot to place a chaste kiss on top of it. It was automatic and he doesn’t realize how natural the action had been until the moment afterward. He runs his fingers smoothly to the back of John’s knee and observes him slowly drift his thighs further apart.

This shouldn’t be happening, they are on the verge again of pushing things too far. But what James wants more than anything is to bite the soft flesh of his inner thigh that his shorts rest against, to reach in between that soft heat and feel him pressed tight against his fingers, to feel his knees knock against his hips. There’s a soft flush forming from John’s neck to his cheeks; a map of evident arousal.

The fear, the shame, the doubt is beginning the battle once again in his skull with its gnashing jaws.

“Not yet,” James manages to voice and he doesn’t even mean for it to burst from his mouth. _Yet._ Not yet. Is it a promise to himself as much as it is to John?

He pushes himself up from the wall, wobbly and disoriented from the exchange. He can’t look at him because if he looks at him again he’ll stay.

He steps quietly from the room and John doesn’t speak.

\--

 _  
Yet._ Not yet. He said ‘Not yet’.

It’s all John can think about that night, lying in his bed tossing and turning beneath the moonlight. He feels their time together like an hourglass, the sand slowly pouring out onto him, disappearing into his skin. He’ll hold it within him— their time, this time.

By the next morning, John searches through his closet, toppling boxes to find the small beige jewelry box covered in dusty blankets. He opens it to reveal his gold Star of David necklace, matching the one that James’ proudly wears. He slips it over his head, letting it dangle against his bare chest. It’s that subtle connection they have and now he can physically feel it rest against his heart.

James doesn’t eat breakfast with him that morning but John schools his face, tossing the pit of a peach into the grass beside his seat. He’s not around by lunch either, or later still when the sun begins to wane in the sky. He spots his mother sitting quietly on a bench at the beginnings of the orchard and he asks, “Have you seen James?”

“Didn’t he go out? I saw him leave this morning,” his mother supplies and John joins her, sitting beside her beneath the canopy of leaves. She smiles warmly at him and asks, “You like him, don’t you? James?”

John releases a nervous smile and shakes his head, “Everyone likes him, it’s almost an obligation to.”

His mother tilts her head comfortably, lifting a book beside her to set in her lap, “I think he likes you too….more than you do.”

John fidgets for a moment and leans forward, resting his hands on his knees, “That’s your impression?”

His mother sighs turning to brush his curls adoringly from his forehead. She spots the necklace peeking out from John’s shirt and reaches out to grasp it in her palm.

\--

That night, lying in his bed once again, James’ bedroom empty, he wonders when he returns if he’d be brave enough to step inside; to stand in the doorway and say _‘I want you to take me.’_

He can already picture the rejection, but what if he didn’t? What if he gives in? John would say, _‘Just do with me as you would Idelle.’_

It’s true, he’s thought that maybe that’s where James went and that’s where he’s spending this very night, wrapped up in each other like a goddamn mural.

_Liar._

John wonders if James is a liar. As if _Not yet_ meant never. Was he placating him like all the rest?

“Liar,” John whispers to the connecting bathroom door.

Not long after when sleep has yet to find him he hears the sound of a car door shutting and someone walking up the gravel drive. He listens as he ascends the stairs and enters the room next door, then the bathroom. John concludes that if the shower turns on then James is a traitor, and that would mean he would have rather been with Idelle. That he will touch John, kiss his skin but retreat to find better pleasures, a better lay.

The water switches on and John shuts his eyes tight away from the moonlight.

_Traitor._

But was he? Could he blame him? James must know that John is inexperienced when it comes to men. In fact, John had almost no experience at all with men. It doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it or been attracted to them, he just never had the courage to go beyond want. Perhaps James sees a boy, a puppy, someone he could never take to bed, or let in to hear his thoughts.

The shower goes on for an hour until the blue hue of dawn graces the horizon and John sits up, the concern furrowing his brow. He pads quickly over to the bathroom door and yanks it open only to find it wasn’t the shower he was hearing but the toilet that had been running continuously.

Suddenly, four weeks, a month seemed too long. Too long to spend it like this. Wondering and worrying about things he can’t control, over people who don’t _want_ to want him. He slumps onto his bed and rests his head in his hands releasing a deliberately slow breath.

The yoke of the horizon doesn’t hold the same brightness as the earlier summer months. He can already feel the warmth slipping away.

At breakfast, John joins them late and James is already there attempting to crack his egg with the flat of his spoon. “You look tired.” James immediately observes and John hates him. He _hates_ him.

The comment goes unanswered and John grabs an apricot from the bowl to bite into. The tap, tap, tap of James cracking his egg succeeds and James tries again, “Did you sleep well?”

His father is at the other side of the table lost in a newspaper and not paying them any mind.

“Fine,” John offers, coldly.

“You look tired,” James repeats, obviously fishing for a response, a reaction.

“So do you,” John snaps back without glancing at him and leans back in his chair, twisting the apricot in his hands.

“It was a long night,” James offers and he doesn’t sound enthusiastic. He sounds far away as if his voice is calling to him from down a tunnel.

They are awkwardly silent for an extended moment before John lets the apricot roll from his hands back onto the table next to the plate.  He slides his chair back, scratching it along the stone loudly and stands. He heads for his bike alone and James doesn’t stop him.

He’d be lying if he didn’t think these last four weeks would turn out differently. That they’d ride to the bookstore in Bergamo, dine together, lay together. John would promise quietly that there’d be no ruining Bach, no hint of Monet and nor would he say ‘ _you’ve added a ring to my soul’_ like a circumference of thought, like the age of a tree; lasting.

One moment he wishes for James to push himself inside him and the next he wants to run away, far away from those green eyes that knew his words before voicing them. He’s terrified. Terrified of what they could still have if the push-pull ended.

In town alone, he seeks out the bookstore he would have taken him to and rests his worries in the soft turning of pages. He glides his fingers across the spines, each asking to be held by his fingers. He stops at the edge of one of the shelves, his finger resting over an ‘A’

 _Armance._ A romance novel that was originally published anonymously in 1827.

A book that James mentioned looking for in passing around a week ago. He had heard the conversation through the door to his father’s study. He lifts it from the shelf and the hardcover is crisp in his palms. He lets the pages glide in front of his face and sets it on the counter to buy. It wasn’t impulsive, he had planned to take him to that very bookstore and point out the book himself, but now he’s purchased the only copy the bookstore has. He could keep it as a prisoner but he thought it best to use it as a message.

The warm wind caresses his curls across his brow as he arrives back at the orchard. The sun is high in the sky. He throws his bike down and immediately steps inside, walking the corridor, determined to send out one final plea, one for history. He reaches his room and practices on a sticky note with a pen, writing in looping cursive. His writing has always been oddly neat as if he had taken up calligraphy in another life.

Once satisfied with his scrawl he opens the cover of the book and writes in the blank space meant for breathing, for the anticipation before beginning the tale inside.

 ' _Between always and never, for you in silence - Italy 1983.’_

Years from now if James kept the book with him, John wants him to open the cover and feel the summer all over again. The what ifs, the what could have been. He wants someone in that future to look through his books some day and ask James _‘Tell me who was ‘in silence’ somewhere in Italy in the eighties?’_

John would want him to hurt, to ache. To feel regret. A small sorrow, something old that he’s carried with him out of the sunlight.

He shuts the book, pressing his lips together as he stands and heads through the bathroom and into James’ room. The door had been open that connected them but James isn’t inside it. He doesn’t wish him to be this time. He sets the book on his desk, resting his fingertips on the cover.

“John?” Madi’s voice calls muffled from the first floor.

It’s a call back to reality, another tug towards bittersweet normality.

\--

The soft clicking of their bikes and his careful breathing are the only things that interrupt the quiet landscape. He follows Madi to the small lake that they usually swim in once it starts to get late into the summer. It wraps around tall golden grass and it is wide open to the rays of the sun. The water remains warm from the heated day but this time she doesn’t bother stepping inside of its depths. She rests, sitting underneath a tree and John hesitantly joins her, slumping in front of her with his bare legs crossed in the grass.

“No swimming today?” John asks and she shakes her head. She didn’t appear angry, just curiously contemplative. She’s wearing a green summer dress with pockets on the edges that she rests her hands in. She always looks so captivating to John in her quiet thoughtfulness.

“Who is James to you?” She inquires and meets his eyes. John’s expression falters but he attempts a comfortable smile that appears crooked.

“He’s a friend… I guess.” John stumbles over his words and she narrows her eyes at him because she’s always been irritatingly perceptive.

“Is there something going on between you two?” She asks bluntly and stretches out her legs in front of her, her feet almost touch his knees.

“No, there isn’t.” John attempts stoicism and fails miserably.

“You sound disappointed.”

John’s more than disappointed. He is defeated.

“I…” He starts and cringes at the words that threaten to slip.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve watched him watching you and that was all I needed to know,” she admits comfortably and leans back against the sticky bark.

John knows he’s staring at her with open surprise and there is no point in hiding it now. A smile breaks out across her face and she shakes her head at him.

“I don’t know what we are. He’s ashamed,” John confesses and Madi’s smile slowly fades.

“Are you ashamed?” She looks genuinely curious and John rips wisps of grass between his fingers idly.

“I’m…hopeless,” John answers and she scoffs unamused by his response.

“That’s your choice, to be _‘hopeless’_. Your choice to be ashamed and to me that all seems like a front because you’re terrified, you were terrified when we were together. If you are always standing still, how are you going to know that something is worth trying?” Madi questions.

John falls back into the grass, looking up at the darkening sky above. He waits in silence until he hears her soft footfalls and feels her lie down next to him to answer, “I left him a message, it’s his decision.”

They turn to face each other, lying on their sides, the setting sun brilliantly beautiful against her shoulder and to look at her is almost blinding. “I can see it, how you fit together,” she says a little wistfully and John reaches out resting his hand on hers in the grass. He wants to apologize for what ifs.

She continues, plucking out his thoughts as she usually does, “We were always better as friends. Don’t give me your guilt, I don’t want it and I won’t give you mine.”

He nods in understanding and she moves closer meeting her lips to his softly before wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. He presses his face into her shoulder and she holds him tight as if to banish the doubts.

\--

James stares at the neat scrawl across the inside cover of the book. A book he planned on searching for, a book that John has given to him as a gift, and along with it a plea.

James allows himself a small moment to imagine giving in, what would become of them after three and half weeks? Could it be a memory he could revisit? Would this give him the warmth no matter how short? He ignores the dark thought that swims to the forefront of his mind— that this will do nothing but serve as a haunting. That this could not possibly be set behind him like a dusty album. Does he ignore the plea, then, and always wonder what fleeting thing could have sparked?

He shuts the book and rests it on his bed; torn loose.

He’s creating this secret within himself already, building a nest for it, making room for the memories it will create like molding clay in his thoughts.

He feels like telling John, the young man at the beginning of his life _‘You’ve found me and now I can’t hide even if I wanted to.’_

He stands and hovers over his desk where he grabs a pen along with a small piece of paper. He writes it like he’s signing a contract on his skin and he leaves it on John’s desk in his darkened room. James lingers inside for a moment, memorizing the way John organizes things in a haphazard chaotic and silent order. His music pages rest scribbled to the left of his desk beside several impeccable sketches of eyes, hands and unrecognizable faces.

He hears the sound of a bike tire on the gravel and quickly steps back into the safe confines of his room and shuts the door that connects them.

\--

John makes his way down the shadowed hallway to the stairs, which he absently ascends with hope building in his chest like an avalanche. He swings his door open and stands on the precipice before entering his room. He can see a yellow note resting on his desk, a note from him, waiting in the moonlight. He crosses the threshold on a breath and immediately snatches it from the desk to read it. His eyes scan the simple short message: _Tomorrow. Midnight._

He feels a chaotic fluttering thrum from his throat to his chest and a smile breaks out wide across his lips. He slumps on his bed with the note and rests it lightly against his lips as if it could help him decipher James’ thoughts when he scribbled this.

“Tomorrow. Midnight.” He says aloud and he’s already consigned his entire self to that midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is the plunge! I hope you are enjoying! Let me know if you are :) thank you to @silversexual for being a beta for this chapter <3


	6. Call Me By Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....and I'll call you by mine.

At 8 am, lying awake and blinking at the ceiling, John wonders dramatically how he will possibly survive the day until midnight. He watches the shadows of the leaves dissolve above him and his heart skips like a stone.

John is skilled at pretending but _this_ , this is something else entirely. He feels as if he’s released a vital part of himself to the wind like a dandelion in the hopes it catches in that combed red hair.

He gets up from his bed, dressing in a gray tank and blue shorts that rest against the tops of his thin thighs and he glares at himself in the mirror. He looks like a boy, or something fae-like, delicate and soft. Is this what James wants? Truly? He had nothing but disdain for the reflection.

He sneaks down the stairs and listens to the chatter outside. He can hear his father laughing and James’ distinctive voice. He leans against the wall for a moment to listen to them speak about where the word ‘apricot’ originated from as if they are preparing a dissertation.

He interrupts James’ input when he steps out onto the terrace not bothering to glance in his direction.

_Everything is fine. Nothing has changed._

He can hear the slight waver in his voice when James continues and John feels like reveling in the discovery.

He slumps into his usual chair as casual as possible while grabbing a cherry to roll around in his mouth and pretends not to listen to every word that leaves James’ lips. He acts uninterested and sighs quietly while fidgeting as if the note never happened. As if it isn’t burning a hole in his pocket to connect to his skin at this moment.

There’s an energy between them that they are unable to hide, something beyond anticipation but more like a beginning. He feels lit up, intoxicated with the thought and he rests his hand against his ribs to anchor the doubts.

James gets up a moment later wiping his mouth with a napkin as if he’s suddenly in a hurry as if he has another date planned. Another yellow note.

“Thank you for breakfast,” he says and doesn’t bother to catch John’s eye before he disappears.

\--

The day is familiar, it is ordinary, it is routine and yet…

James steers his bike into the path of the sun, letting his exposed skin pleasantly heat beneath it. He should feel doubt, guilt and all the shadows he feared before but he doesn’t.

Oddly enough, after giving him the note, which in turn was a small piece of his heart, he feels the giddy nerves of the spark.

The spark, which he recognizes more clearly now in the daylight, alone with his thoughts to process them. He’s tired of touching only to pull back and watch the telltale disappointment crowd John’s features.

It’s true that their time together is limited but he’d either spend these weeks wallowing in limbo or finally take a leap into that proverbial pond. His heart is a betrayer to his mind, thudding wildly at the prospect.

He doesn’t lift his arms into the sunlight as John would but he does close his eyes while riding in the warm wind.  

Even the city of Bergamo seems brighter, almost blinding. There’s a freshness to the exhausted summer air, it holds the sea.

He sits at the table they sat at when John first guided him here and the metal of the armrest still burns his skin but he has a small smile instead of a scowl. He leans back to read the book he held in his hand.

Armance, the novel John gave him with a glimmer of hope. He runs his fingers over the message and covers the word ‘Never’ with his thumb. Now the message said: _‘Between always’_

Deep down James knew this is dangerous for both of them. To give up pieces of themselves to the hourglass that rests in the background. Will those pieces remain? Even after this time ends?

He will catalog every sigh, accidental touch of skin, every look so that he may remember it properly; vividly. Those blue shorts, that curly dark hair, those bright youthful eyes and whatever tonight may conjure. The feel of him; his lips on his like a secret shared.

James is already falling but he lets it happen this time. There is no grasping for an edge or a rescue to be had.

Sitting there he knew he was experiencing a risky sort of happiness, something beyond a rose-colored lens but he’s also grateful for the dissipating doubt.

\--

By the time the sun kisses the horizon, John has been summoned to join his parents and their guests for dinner. Before today he may have protested and sulked for some of the evening but he merrily accepted this night. His father had eyed him suspiciously but John needed a distraction. His thoughts all day have been circling like vultures waiting to pick him apart. Will James show at midnight? What if he decides he doesn’t want John?

He sat at the table beneath the lighted leaves of the trees as his father pours the red wine. The two guests his parents invited consisted of a scholarly gay couple from Chicago who spoke terrible Italian. John wonders idly while pushing his food on his plate what their life together is like. They seem to care a great deal about one another; each of them passing stories between them like cigarettes.

John wishes he could ask them questions without feeling caught out but he refrains, only kindly smiling when they glance his way.  He wonders which one of them _takes_ the other. Did they switch? Or is there some sort of coded preference in the bedroom?

He tries to imagine him and James in the place of the couple, dining and openly affectionate at dinner and he lets the illusion plant itself in his thoughts. Could he sense the heartbreak somewhere on the horizon? Or is he trying to turn blindly toward the light away from the shadow?

After dinner when there is only quiet conversation, John takes his leave. He showers and spends too long picking over any flaw that seems magnified by his scrutiny. He tries not to think about how tomorrow he might be someone else. Changed forever by an experience he may have dismissed not long ago.

The sound of laughter travels up from below out of the partially open window in his bedroom. He peers down at his parents waving as the two guests take their leave. The tires crackle on the drive and his mother and father head out to walk the orchard.

_Three hours._

He dresses in a gray t-shirt with a faded logo and a pair of navy blue shorts because this way it looks like he understands that this might just be a _‘one-night thing’_ even if it means everything.

_One hour._

John sits on his bed, observing his toes press into the wood of the floor. He hears his mother’s laughter from downstairs and murmured conversation. It comforts him to know that the world is still turning even while his heart beats wildly, threatening to leap from his chest.

His window is wide open letting the breath of the summer night inside his space. He stands and leans over the sill taking a deep breath before turning his attention to the balcony to his left, which he can see from his window. There’s a silhouette leaning over the rail in silence. It’s _him._

He steps back from the window as if the sill burned him and he feels altogether at once giddy, alive and warm. Should he go to him? It was still early but would that matter?

A wide smile stretches his face and he attempts to school the manic appearance of it in the reflection. The new form of bravery from such a simple sight forces his feet forward. He steps through the connecting door that leads to the balcony and stands in the arch doorway. He observes James’ shadowed back with his hair ruffling in the night wind. He memorizes the image like a snapshot.

“Evening,” John calls stoically.

But what he means is: ‘ _Do you still want this?’_

James turns to look at him with a warm expression as John nears him. He stands at the edge beside him and rests his hands on the iron railing attempting to appear casual. James blinks at him with open adoration, studying his eyes and searching for any doubt. He swallows softly, moving his attention towards the darkened shape of trees in the distance. He’s freefalling.

“I’m glad you came,” James confesses breaking the fragile shards of silence and the softness of his voice collapses the veneer of calm between them.

Seeing him now, wrapped in the warm dark, his hair brushing against his brow and his lips pulling into an accepting smile made something new bloom inside John.

He sighs as if to break apart the tightness in his throat but it only serves to reveal the shakiness of his nerves.

James slides his hand over the railing and gently meets John’s, skin to skin. His finger lightly caresses his wrist bone.

John’s voice wavers with a growing anxious hope, “I’m fucking nervous.”

James smile pulls things from him with poetic ease. He lifts his hand from his to rest it on John’s cheek for a brief moment before he moves away. The retreating warmth is a static tease. James walks back into the darkness of his room, turning to look at John and inviting him to follow.

John feels hazy, disconnected on the walk into his room from the balcony. He glances at Armance which rests on his desk in plain view. James pushes the door shut and they both cringe when it heavily slams. They pass a smile back and forth to one another as James stands at the foot of the bed, leaning handsomely back against the frame.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” John speaks sarcastically and James releases a breathy laugh.

“Considering I haven’t done anything to it.” He replies and John nods, slowly stepping over to him. They stare at one another in the shadow of the room. They are inches apart daring the other to move. James is patient and John is lacking in that regard.

He thinks if he were to bravely press his lips to James in this moment he would surely die, so instead, John hesitantly leans his forehead on James’ shoulder.

“You okay?” James whispers against his ear.

John moves his arms around the warmth of him in an embrace as a clear answer. He couldn’t speak suddenly, his tongue is heavy. James’ huff of amusement vibrates against his cheek. He envelops John in his arms and the feel of it, the familiar but altogether new constraint is all he’ll ever need.

He slides his arms around the back of James’ neck, pressing his face below his jaw. He smells the aftershave and beneath it something that pools the heat in his belly.

He can feel James smother his face in his curls and press a small kiss to the top of his head. The intimacy, the vulnerability born from this moment is something beyond lust, beyond functional need.

 “Can I kiss you?” James asks permission. He’s been holding back, afraid to spook John away for good.

James hands cradle John’s face as he replies, “Yes.. please.”

There’s an unsure smile between them and James leans in only for John to pull teasingly back. His breath ghosts over his lips.

“This make you happy?” James asks and John can sense another question hiding precariously beneath it.

He nods with a smirk to hide the shaky confession threatening to burst from him. He wants to say that he is light given form in this moment, that touching James is like stepping into the sea.

“Not going to get a nosebleed on me, are you?” James jests and John feigns annoyance. He presses himself into his chest playfully and James lets them topple onto the bed, bouncing with the springs.

John hovers above him for a breath but not before James gently flips them, sending him onto his back. The mattress shakes beneath him, creaking loudly against the wall. His lips part at the sight of James’ hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are locked on his with something bordering a vulnerable fondness.

James slides his hands up to his wrists pinning John’s softly to the bed. He attempts a laugh but his entire body is trembling. The fake amusement vanishes when he notices James realize this.

He releases John’s wrists but remains above him and begins to unbutton his own shirt. He watches with a quiet awe as James slips it from his shoulders, tossing it off the bed. His bare freckled chest hovers over him like his own sculpture, hidden away in the dark.

John hesitantly reaches out, running his fingers over the warm skin near his nipple and follows a path of freckles that disappears beneath his waistband. James grabs his hand before he ventures further and places a soft kiss on his palm.

“You’re okay with this? You’re shaking.” He tilts his head and John searches for the right words to convey that he needs this. That this night is defining.

“I want this…I’ve wanted this,” John admits.

James grabs at the edges of John’s shirt and John nods eagerly relieved that he didn’t have to undress himself.

He had imagined standing in this room in front of one another as John stripped himself bare and awkwardly waited for James to reject him. This is different.

James removes the shirt quickly over John’s head with a quiet, “off.” And immediately plants his lips on John’s bare abdomen. He releases a small gasp, the action startling him and tenting his shorts between them.

The heat from his open mouth over John’s skin guides his thighs apart so that James may move in between them. He slides his mouth up the center of his chest, lingering on the hollow of his throat before moving to hover his face closely over his.

John feels like begging, pleading for James to kiss him, to sink into him and he hopes the desperation is obvious. James' eyes roam over his face before gracefully pressing his lips on his and John wraps his arms around him, pulling him in tight. Their chests have meshed together and he’s trapped beneath James’ thudding heartbeat.

Their tongues slide together and John whimpers into his mouth, grasping James’ freckled shoulders. The moonlight rests behind them, sending in slivers of glow from the window. It rests on James back, lighting up his green eyes when he pulls away. John’s fingers fumble clumsily over James’ zipper and he helps him remove his yellow shorts, tossing them into the ether.

James moves down John’s body and the heat of his breath imprints above John’s shorts which now hung low on his hips. John moves his hand into James’ hair as he runs his lips over John’s inner thigh, lightly biting the skin before hooking his fingers in the waistband and tugging.

John closes his eyes, lifting his head to the ceiling overwhelmed with the feeling of being utterly exposed. His cheeks heat up and he feels foolishly consumed. His confidence left him the moment he stepped into this room, there is no more swagger, no pretending. This is it.

Both of them are divested of clothing and John can feel James’ erection against his leg. His shoulders rub against John’s knees. It’s here that he wishes for the ability to slow down time, to allow the moon to capture this space in between.

It’s a moment of silence before James softly glides against his skin, matching their erections together with light friction. John opens his eyes to witness the sight of James, flushed with an adoring grin on his face. He’s breathtaking, the most alluring image that John has laid his eyes on. He feels unworthy of such a visage but when James bends downs again to claim his mouth he’s whole. He parts his lips willingly and grunts when James presses them closer. He’s going to lose it already, being this close to the edge when the night seems to be at its beginning. John wraps his legs around his hips before James breaks their mouths apart to lean over the side of the bed.

He listens to him rummage in the side table drawer and he takes a moment to study his broad bare shoulders and the wet shine of his lips. John slides his fingers down between them and grips James’ cock tentatively, worshipping the feel of such a weight in his palm. He has imagined this far too often as of late and yet the reality of it is much more intoxicating.

How far had they come from awkward glances at the breakfast table and the embarrassing day that John had pressed his face inside James’ shorts because he thought that would be it. He thought that was his one chance to swoon. It wouldn’t have been enough, even this, right now isn’t enough. He needs James to press himself inside him and envelop him like a forever shadow.

He pulls back from the drawer, the items resting in his hand as he sits back between John’s legs and takes him in. John closes his eyes against the scrutiny as if James could possibly turn him away now having finally taken the time to study. He thinks about his knobby knees, his thin thighs, his small waist and is suddenly overcome with the resounding fear of this all coming to an abrupt end.

“You’re beautiful, John. I’m captivated.” James speaks. His voice is ragged and deep with arousal. It’s as if he knew John’s doubts and plucked them out one by one to banish them all.

“Turn over.” The command is soft and still open to disagreement but John is beyond words at this point. He complies lying on his stomach, the pillows moved off the bed. His face is turned to the side and he rests his hands on the mattress. There’s another quiet moment left between them in case any protests are given and John listens to the condom package being torn open. The sound of it being rolled onto James and then the rubbing of liquid between his palms. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears and he releases a soft breath when James finger soothingly presses against his hole.

The slow circles of James’ index finger against the sensitive skin causes a small laugh to erupt from John’s mouth and he bites his lip. “Sorry…” John attempts and James finishes, “Tickles?”

“Sorry,” John repeats with a rasp.

James gives him a low rumble of a laugh in return and then presses his finger softly inside. Any awkwardness he feels is quickly forgotten as his chest tightens from the sensation. He can feel James’ other palm caress warmly along the bottom of his spine. It coaxes a comfort in the action and after a moment there are two fingers inside him.

The realization that this is happening finally crashes into him, that James wants him, wants this, that he will be completely meshed into him soon.

The discomfort from the pressure is waning, giving way to something new, a warmth brought out by the slow dance of those fingers. “You okay?” James asks, kindly.

John can’t speak, he nods quickly hoping he can see him in the shadow. The reply is James third finger, pressing in tightly but oddly relieving all at once.

John feels as though he’s resting at the bottom of a sea. He wants to say that he’s never had the distinct feeling of arriving somewhere that has so fast become very dear to him. That he wants this forever. Through the shiver in his arms and thighs, to James fingers that quell it.

It’s a careful glide out with a collapsing breath as he pulls his fingers from him. James leans over him capturing his lips once again in a sideways kiss. His hands sweep against his waist, lingering below his ribs.

John wants James to consume him, make him a part of him and carry him as one would a flame lit up from a candle.

He moves back and John’s heart skitters because he knows what’s about to happen; the thing he’s wanted since he first spoke to him, when he realized how effortless it is for James to understand him.

He hears the sticky wet stroke of the liquid against latex and then his hands are on the top curve of John’s buttocks. His breath leaves in a burst when he feels the beginnings of James’ cock press inside him.

His hands grip the tight sheet on the mattress; flexing against the material. The pressure is intriguing, foreign and slightly uncomfortable but he knows the discomfort will pass.

“John…” James speaks and his voice sounds ruined as if it took everything to stop himself from pushing in further.

“…please don’t stop,” John begs for him to continue. Standing on this precipice is going to drive him to insanity. He’s tempted to admit: _‘if you stop I’ll die’_

James slides out only to smoothly glide back in a little deeper with each push and pull. John squeezes his eyes shut, his hand balling into a loose fist against the bed and James is gentle with the ease.

He leans over him while merging further inwards and kisses the sweat against the curve of John’s back. He kisses the swell beneath the bottom of his spine and John’s tension lessens, his hand loosens. The burning collapse gives way to something else, something akin to being caressed from the inside out.

It is the spark.

His breathing heightens, no longer held within the confines of his lungs and he’s becoming something new. James is molding him with each languid thrust into someone that has his heart held out.

“James..” He says with an exhale to fit the word around his lips and his eyes are now softly shut. It’s a declaration and James understands, he always does.

“John..” He whispers back, his breathing grows heavier and the rhythm strengthens as he finally buries himself deep inside John. He’s filling him up and John is going to fall apart. He moans in muffled reverie and James kisses his back messily, running his teeth over his skin.  

James' fingers are in the ends of his hair, pulling his head back gently and John’s lips part in awe. The burn is a low kindle made of embers.

John groans unintelligible encouragement with his confidence born from the shared connection.

“I got you,” James whispers comfortingly and the words wrap around him like a blanket of night. This night. Night of all nights. Their night.

He grips John’s waist, quickening his hips and they tumble together into someplace new, a place that houses their tuned thoughts.

They are unabashedly loud together. John’s breathy moans and James’ low-throated grunts is an uncoordinated chorus given back to the moonlight as a gift.

James reaches underneath his hip and grips John’s leaking cock. The sudden feel of it sends a jolt through him and when he begins to pump him it isn’t long before John loses himself completely.

There’s a burst of stars, so vivid that he could name them and he cries out coming into James’ hand. He has taken him apart.

Now, James must put him back together with the final heaving thrusts inside him. He slips into their warm darkness, below and above this place. James’ grip on his hip tightens and then John is graced with the feeling of the warmth of his release gathering inside of him.

It’s a single moment of their shared panting before James pulls himself from the space he’s claimed inside of John and collapses beside him. He immediately pulls John onto his chest, moving his hand inside his curls over his scalp and holding him there against his sweat-soaked skin like something to be cherished.

“I love this,” John whispers against him.

Because he did. He loved everything in this moment.

James nudges him to move to his eye level and John feels boneless during the effort but he’s met with those lips on his once again for a brief moment. He wants more of him, always more.

James pulls back and says with a husky whisper, “call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine.”   

John smiles with a sated squint, “John.” He repeats again and again.

As soon as he spoke his name as though it were his, it transported him to a realm he never knew existed, a place John never shared with anyone in his life before or _since_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road starts to get bumpy for them coming up here. I hope you enjoyed :)


	7. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles with his identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the infamous peach scene and if you've seen the movie or read the book then you know what I'm talking about and if not, I hope you enjoy xD

It’s that limbo between morning and night before the sun has met the horizon. The orchard is quiet except for the generous sway of leaves from the warm breeze. The sky is a dark midnight blue fast fading into light.

John lies awake, blinking at the ceiling with James sleeping beside him. His arm is over John’s chest and his face against John’s shoulder. They had recited their own names like prayers to one another for the rest of the night.

Now, with the coming morning John feels misplaced, the ache is new, thrilling but altogether restless. What would he do when James left? Who would he be?

James has touched him, pulled secrets from his skin, been inside him. He’s already changed.

He feels false and he sits up carefully moving away from the warmth of James’ grasp. He stands nude from the bed and slips his shorts back on before journeying out to the balcony.

He walks to the railing within the night wind and rests his hand on the rail already memorizing the moment that James reached out to place his hand on his. His fingers flex against it and he feels far away from last night.

The realization that there will never be anyone like James to grace his life brings a tear to rest at the corner of his eye. He wipes it away before it can fall and make it real. Why was he like this? He wants to shut down to become one of those experienced apathetics.

“Morning,” comes the warm sleep addled voice. John turns slowly towards James who squints at him in half-sleep, his hair is a beautiful mess on his head. He’s wearing shorts like him but nothing else.

“You okay?” He asks already sensing John’s demeanor.

He can’t go back in the room because if he does, he’ll never want to leave it.

“Want to go swimming?” John suggests and he tries to smile but it falls from his face.

After dressing in their usual summery attire, with James’ green shorts resting on his thighs, they grab their bikes to head to the place just south of Monet’s Berm. The pond opens deep enough for diving and exploration.

John rests his bike against a tree and immediately removes his shirt and tosses it into the grass. He doesn’t look back at James or flash him a grin. He wades into the cold water, with his arms held above the surface in a shiver before he plunges beneath it.

He hugs his knees with his eyes shut tight as he floated in a ball underwater. The outside world has been silenced and in that short amount of time before he has to surface again he thinks about empty spaces.

_The leaving._

He’s never done anything like this before or allowed himself to be opened up, it let doubt inside; the quiet shame.

Who was he? What did this mean?

He was trapped in his head since he woke up and he was right that last night changed him but he didn’t know what it changed him into.

He tries to imagine floating in this water alone to a time when James isn’t there, to where echoes of them don’t linger.

He surfaces, moving his wet hair away from his face and he glances behind him at James who is swimming laps too far away.

John knows that James senses he needs to be alone without being _alone_. He’s tempted to cross the barrier again into the present and not remain divided like a future he quietly fears.

He feels awkward repulsion as if he could somehow step out of his skin to leave himself behind.

John swims further away, away from the shade and out into the new sunlight of the morning. He’s exposed to the day and he should be smiling, shouldn’t he? He needs to wake up, somehow pull himself from an invisible deep slumber.

He swims back to the shore and climbs out, dripping onto the grass and stands beneath the tree breathing. He can hear a splash and then the sound of bare feet pressing on the moss behind him.

“John.. are you okay?” James asks and he can hear the hesitance in his voice, the uncertainty. He’s worried but John doesn’t know how to snap out of whatever this is.

“I’m fine,” he says softly, looking out to the field of light.

James feels so far away. His fingers twitch to touch his skin, skin he is allowed to explore but his mind is a trap door suddenly locked tight.

They head back silently on their bikes, James remains behind him, distancing himself and he can feel his eyes on him. He wants to pry John open but he refrains with a politeness that only adds to John’s guilt.

They arrive back at the orchard and inside the quietness of the house. They ascend the stairs without a word to one another.

Inside James bedroom, John crawls into bed, lying on his side facing the balcony. He feels that if he lies there long enough then he will just get smaller and smaller until he’s microscopic.

James sits on the bed quietly. He can feel the dip in the mattress but he doesn’t turn to look at him.

He needs to come back to himself. Where did he go?

“Did…I hurt you?” James asks unbearably soft.

A tear rolls down from the corner of John’s eye and connects with the pillow.

“No.”

How does John say, _‘it was the best night of my life’?_ He can’t push it from his lips.

He feels James stand, leaving the bed stilled; alone. His sandals pop across the floor towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” John manages and wipes away his wet face.

“I have to pick up some typed pages in B.,” James replies and then he’s gone, out of the room. The door hangs partially open, he can hear it creaking in a state of being shut and open all at once.

John quickly sits up and walks out onto the balcony to observe James grabbing his bike to ride across the drive away from him. He watches him disappear and his heart begins to panic, he feels clammy, sweat is collecting at his temples.

Is this practice for when their time is up?

John grabs his sunglasses from his room and jogs down the stairs towards the daylight once again.

The handlebars of his bike are burning to the touch from resting beneath the sun. He slips his sunglasses on and rides up the drive where he saw James a moment ago. He didn’t want their time to be up yet despite his coldness. What if James wants to leave early? What would he do then?

He peddles quickly to Bergamo as if he’s living in an old movie where one person goes after the other before they disappear. Only, John knows he could have stayed at home, moping in his listlessness and James would have come back but he needs him to know that this matters. It matters most of all.

He’s confused, trembling, and attempting to pretend that these moments aren’t defining. That if he pretends then the end of it won’t snap against him, cracking apart what’s left.

He rides beyond the eatery towards the center of town, by the war memorial and parks his bike against a pillar. He spots James in a brilliant swath of sun stepping out of the doorway with an overhang of vines.

“You’re not sick of me yet?” James questions, the tone is in jest but John knows he’s truly asking.

John removes his sunglasses to blink at him sheepishly and says, “No…I just wanted to be with you.”

James’ unsure smile evolves into coy amusement and John feels as though a spotlight has been cast on him for the world to gawk at.  He turns awkwardly and says, “I’ll just…I’ll go.”

John heads for his bike and James speaks, “Do you know how happy I am that we slept together?”

John halts his feet on the cobblestone and turns back to him, pressing his lips together as he slowly meets James’ eyes. The smile has waned and a seriousness crowds his features.

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” James continues, “and I hate the thought that I may have hurt you somehow.”

John swallows softly and replies, “I loved…”

He stops, suddenly terrified and James squints at him waiting for him to finish.

“I loved last night,” John admits because it was the truth. The truth of all truths. The smile grows back on James’ face before he begins to stroll down a separate alley, inviting John beside him.

They bump hands accidentally and then James tentatively caresses his palm before they stop in an alcove.

“Are you happy I came here?” John asks and James glances around them to make sure no one was in their view and leans in but not enough to touch.

“I would kiss you now if I could,” James says and his words wrap around John attempting to erase the silent foreboding. 

\--

That wrongness, the fear of something looming, doesn’t abate.

As much as John wishes it to, it remains on their ride back together even through the smiles. It remains when James leaves him to spend the day in his father’s office and it remains when John walks the orchard alone, watching the trees sway in quiet acknowledgment.

He picks two ripe peaches from the nearest branch and heads inside, flopping on his bed once in his room. He grabs an old book from his side table and flips through it mindlessly.

His heart is racing as if he’s reached the point of fight or flight. He needs to calm down, find something solid to grasp onto. The wandering thoughts of dark ‘what ifs’ linger like premonitions and he can’t shut them off.

He flips the radio on and turns up the volume inhaling the warm summer air before lying back on his pillow. He grabs one of the peaches absently and rolls it on his bare chest above his heart.

Should he feel shame because he doesn’t know who he is? Because he enjoyed it when James pressed inside him? Because all he wants is to be wrapped around him?

John lifts the ripe peach in his hand and runs his fingers softly over the skin. He’s never had such an obsession with someone before, to want them every waking minute, to wish for their voice against his ear.

He presses his finger into the top indention where the stem would grow and thinks of what will become of this obsession. What will it mature into over time? Through separation? He didn’t want to let go of this feeling but he also didn’t quite understand it.

To be who he is because of James. To become irrevocably close that one becomes the other is more than an overlap, but a possession.

He presses his finger deeper into the skin of the peach, piercing the fruit along the crease. The harsh thrall of shame heats his cheeks. The juices roll down the curve of it and splash on his chest. He sits up with a soft sigh, wiping away the mess with his hand in the stickiness before shoving his thumb back into the skin of it.  He presses down on the mush inside, hollowing out a space and a lump grows in his throat.

He feels as though he holds back a sob as he grips the pit and pulls it from the center, tossing it messily to the floor beside his bed. He’s cracked in two and he doesn’t know how to pull himself together again. Will he always be this separate from the self that existed before that night?

To be in his mouth that is also John’s mouth, to feel his fingers open him, carrying away the contents. He’s shaking now, his fingers tremble inside the sticky organs of the peach. He imagines this peach being James, that it is John opening him up, stealing away what’s inside.

He lies back, letting the peach dribble more stickiness onto his chest and he rests it against his lips, sucking softly on the sweetness.  

He wants to taste him. Would he laugh because of his shy tongue? What would he do if John were to press into him too? Into between his thighs and a freckled map of skin?

He slides the eviscerated peach down his chest and slowly unbuttons his shorts. He’s gone mad with this stripped feeling; the harshness of his pounding heart. There is something wrong with him. He’s crooked and in a constant state of stumbling.

He presses the inside of the peach over his cock and thinks of James' lips over his. He closes his eyes on a whimper and it's too loud in the quiet room as if an audience waits hidden somewhere. He pumps his hand faster through the sweet slickness and thinks of the weight of James in his hands; the heavy wet warmth.

He’s breaking and soon he will be _broken_. Where will the pieces go?

He doesn’t last long through the strokes and he comes messily between the contents of the peach and his fingers. He breathes through a groan and curses at himself on the verge of weeping. He can’t hold himself together. What has he done?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers but he doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to.

He wasn’t a bad person for feeling this way, was he?

He grips the peach which is now truly torn apart and sets it on the side table beside him. He rings his hands to quell the shaking present in them.

He rolls on his side, not caring about the sticky mess he’s enveloped in and shuts his eyes against all of it.

\--

The moon has settled on the breezy crest of the trees and James walks up the quiet darkened stairs after spending an exhausting number of hours researching for Professor Gates.

He peers into his room in the hopes to see him there, lying in his bed but his smile falls when he sees that the bed is empty and unmade. There’s a suffocating silence that remains.

He’s tried to give him his space, afraid that he’s damaged them somehow by starting this whole whirlwind but James isn’t the same person any longer. He gave a piece of himself up to the boy of summer.

The moment he shook John’s hand he knew he’d make him into someone else. Someone who wants something beyond a ticking clock. They weren’t made for the rush of an hourglass.

He steps out into the shadowed hall once again and notices John’s door cracked slightly, letting the moonlight in. He slowly creaks the door open and spots him lying on his back eyes closed in sleep. His feet carefully navigate the creaking floorboards and he stands beside his bed before sitting on the edge of it and caressing his hand up his arm creating goosebumps in his wake.

He watches with fondness as John blinks his eyes open. A small tired smile forms on his lips in greeting.

“I tried to stay awake,” John comments and James leans in pressing his mouth to John’s abdomen. He’s rewarded with intake of breath and then his tongue picks up on a familiar sweetness. His brows knit together in confusion and he continues to slide his lips to the waistband of John’s shorts which he unbuttons.

John squirms for a moment on a breath when James presses his mouth to the tip of his cock and slides his tongue down the hardening length. Despite the whimper, he receives that arouses him further, the taste remains. It’s more prevalent where his tongue is exploring now.

James sits up releasing John’s cock and squints at him, “what did you do?”

John is staring at him already flushed and open-mouthed but he doesn’t speak a word.

He spots the obliterated peach resting on the side table and reaches for it.

John calls out a _“don’t”_ and James leans back smiling mischievously with the mess of a peach in his hand. He notices the liquid that had dribbled out from inside of the cavity and swipes his finger across it.

John sits up quick in a panic when James goes to taste it and he snatches James’ wrist.

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” John huffs loudly at him and its difficult for James to see his expression in the shadow of the room.

“If that’s the case then I wish everyone was as sick as you,” James teases and makes a move to bite into the peach.

John immediately knocks the mess from his hand with a cry, “don’t!”

“John?” James asks softly and the amusement dies in his tone.

Then John begins to weep, his shoulders shake and he wraps himself around James’ torso. He immediately embraces him in his arms with a whisper, “hey….”

John sits up, resting his hand on his face sobbing between his fingers and trembling. James tightens his hold around the shaking body as John buries his face in his neck wetting his skin with tears.

“I got you,” James says and pulls him back, resting his hands on John’s cheeks. The tears slide down his palms.

“I’m sorry. “

“It’s okay.”

John leans forward kissing him deeply. Their lips move together in shivery languid ease. He understands the feeling of the shame present in John now, it’s become clear. He wants to banish it.

James releases their mouths a moment later to place kisses at the corner of his eyes, his nose, his chin, his cheeks and then they are embracing once again. John presses himself tight to him and it feels like a breakthrough. It feels as though John has let him in again, that space between them has flooded with the warmth of him.  

John weeps into his shoulder and says with a raw shaky voice, “I don’t want you to go.”

The sound of it would echo inside James’ skull for the years after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it! Some more happy times up next before more angst.


	8. The San Clemente Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Goodbye.

The air is chilled.

It’s the first thing John notices on his night walk through the orchard. It meant that autumn is around the corner and it meant that James would be a ghost.

They’re living between the ticking of each clock.

John keeps mental snapshots of James sleeping; the way his hair rested over his closed eyes. He even plucked a red hair from his pillow to keep in his pocket as if the reminder could help instead of haunt.

He’s slowly losing his mind.

Now, James waves him over from resting on a rocky ruin at the edges of the orchard. John eagerly joins him on the edge of a crumbling wall.

“We wasted so many days dancing around each other, why didn’t you give me a sign?” John's voice is soft and James tangles their legs together as the night bugs buzz in the background.

“I did. Remember volleyball? And I touched you?” James smiles and leans towards him teasingly. John bears his neck for James to press his lips against his skin.

“…to show you that I was interested…” James whispers between kisses. His breath slides over John’s collarbone. It sends a shivery contentment down his spine as John carefully runs his hands along James' bare thighs.

He could come undone by this contact alone but there is no reigning back any longer. Not with the time they have left.  

James pulls back towards the tree encapsulated against the ruins and John moves to chase after his lips.

“You reacted poorly. I thought I had scared you.”

John admits, “I’m sorry…I was pretty fucking confused by..you.”

James’ lazy smile in this shared moment is something John wants to remember. To store it somewhere, where he can examine it again as if it would always be this time. This perpetual summer of theirs.

What were they to each other? What did this mean?

James fidgets absently, “I’d come out here for hours nearly every night.”

The confession slides against his ear and he holds it there. His fears, his anxieties all irrational, all answered by that single sentence.

“I thought that you and Idelle were…” John lets the words hang in the air and James laughs quietly.

“I know what you thought.”

“You did it on purpose then?”

James moves forward capturing John’s lips in a soft push and pull of breath. He thinks of the grapevines, the smell of lavender and the swaying olive trees to keep him here. To ground his memory to this spot, this place.

John thinks he won’t regret any of it, not the shame and what it bloomed. He won’t forget the sweeping soft edge of sun meeting the horizon or the burn of having James inside him. That place inside John that is only James’.

\--

Unexpectedly, James would need to stay in Bergamo to spend the last days in Italy working on the final draft of his manuscript with his publisher.

The incoming dread that flooded John’s senses was subdued by James asking for his company and to stay with him until his departure from the country.

It didn’t lessen the empty pit growing in his stomach at the sight of James’ things disappearing from his room. The shorts aren’t hanging on the bedpost any longer, they’re packed away.

“Can I have them?” John asks pointing at the shorts lying inside James’ suitcase.

James doesn’t bat an eyelash. He grabs them from his pile of folded clothes and tosses them at John. He catches them with a small smile that fades when he realizes they are freshly laundered.

How could he capture his smell?

As John packs his own suitcase it strikes him how he feels as though he’s saying goodbye to this life and that the one he will come back to will be foreign to him in its quietness. There will be a void. One they both created in each other. It will be inescapable.

His parents wave goodbye to them as the bus pulls away from the station to take them to Bergamo. If it was an ordinary day they would have rode their bikes and stopped at Monet’s Berm to kiss beneath the shade but today of all days James takes his belongings with him.

He can’t stop the exchange of smiles between them, however. He wants to caress his skin. He wants to run the pad his thumb along James’ lips.

\--

Bergamo appears different to him when they arrive. The light is hazy and filled with a dampness that clung to everything as if they just missed the rain. It is a weight all on its own. He sees the memorial where they circled it together with confessions. The day that they first kissed. It is a memorial too.

He’s placed statues of them in his mind at that very spot.

The hotel room is small with one bed and a balcony overlooking the city with the sound of birds nesting above them. John flops onto the creaky bed unceremoniously as James opens the doors to the fresh air of the muggy day. The sheets are scratchy and the light barely filters inside but he doesn’t mind the darkness.

“I want you inside me,” John freely admits, lying on the bed and watching the shadows on the ceiling.

There’s a small moment of silence before James replies a little breathless, “…the things you say.”

The sound of James sandals popping softly towards him from the balcony flushes his skin and arouses him all at once.

“I’m never going to want to leave this room,” James supplies and John listens to the sound of fabric moving against skin. James is undressing and John lets his sandals fall from his feet to the floor in front of the bed with a soft thud.

\--

It’s when the sun is waning in the background and the shadows sharpen along the wall that John clings to James bare back as if he could mold himself into his skin. The slick slide of James filling him up gives him a peace that isn’t achievable anywhere else. Their shared panting from the effort is in tandem with his pounding heart.

James is deliberately slow with his thrusts as if he’s savoring their connection. John’s knees are bent like puzzle pieces over his shoulders.

It is like the first time and it isn’t. They have already evolved from summer as if they are watching this unfold from a dark point in time.

James breathes heavily against the side of his neck, “the feel of you…”

The reverence in his voice collects a weighted lump in John’s throat like an anchor and he clings harder to those broad freckled shoulders before he releases a whisper of a moan.

He pushes James further inside him by moving along the sheets beneath him and watches the brilliance of open-mouthed euphoria form across James’ features. He never wants to separate. He wants to hold him here inside of him and keep them between time.

A place where the ticking can’t seek them out and where shadows fade to night.

As momentum builds to a crescendo, James grunts his name, John whispers, “I love you.”

James topples over the edge and comes inside of him, filling him up with warmth as he opens his mouth over John’s shoulder.

They are nothing but sweat and breath, not able to tell one from the other wracked in bliss. Their limbs are the others. Their names belong to the other.

\--

Later, when James observes the darkness and listens to the soft intake of breath from John’s sleeping form, he hears those words echo inside him.

_‘I love you’_

In that stunning breathy tone wrapped in desperation.

What have they done? What has he done?

This will be their destruction and yet he can’t help but tumble with it. He swallows softly and blinks back the burning wetness against his eyelashes.

He feels as though they are two pieces of each other that keep finding the other beyond the linearity of time. Yet, they are trapped to different paths.

He dares to turn his head and watch John’s sleeping face. The softness of the moonlight against his cheeks and the rise and fall of his chest undoes him again.

How is he to pack himself away? How is he to leave him?

He sits up from the bed and dresses himself resigned to the torment of his thoughts. He spends the beginnings of the dawn resting against the railing of the balcony watching the city slowly come to life once more.

He looks out beyond the flock of birds gliding over the sky to the restaurant where they first sat down together. He attempted to close himself off then because he saw in the blue of those eyes his other. The mirror that they held for each other. He was unable to hide and it terrified him. It still does.

It’s a moment later that he feels those warm hands slide along his hips and wrap around his chest. John presses himself against James’ back and rests his face on his shoulder blade. James reaches down and grips John’s arm with his palm. He memorizes the feel of his warm body against his.

He thinks of those eyes last night wild in their brave vulnerability and he turns in John’s arms to face him. His curls are messy across his forehead and he smiles at him tiredly. He can see the light dimming in his expression.

He can tell that John is apprehensive about what he said last night. He’s unsure of how James will react but he studies his face openly.

James leans in and presses his forehead against his, “how about breakfast?”

“What I said last night,” John relays and James kisses him once softly on the lips.

“It’s fine.”

John pulls back but not out of his space, “it isn’t…”

“John…I leave tomorrow.”

The words rush out of his lips and he sees the moment it impacts John. His features distort and he attempts to maintain balance but he sees the devastation there. It’s as if he forgot and James tore down the curtain of denial.

James watches him turn as he begins to dress and asks, “where are you going?”

John says nothing as he zips up his jeans and pulls on his plain blue shirt. He slips on his sandals to head for the door. James flinches when it slams shut and he closes his eyes briefly absorbing the truth of it. 

This could be their last day they ever have together.

\--

The light refuses to reach all of the corners of the room which makes him feel hidden from the world. James sits on the edge of the bed gripping his manuscript before resting it quietly beside him. It’s a few minutes later that he hears the door snick open and he keeps his back to John in silence.

He feels the bed dip when he sits down behind him, “I love you.”

James’ chest feels as though it’s caving in as he replies, “John..”

“I just want you to know. I need you to know,” his voice wavers and James’ resolve cracks. He moves to the other side of the bed to kneel in front of John who appears utterly miserable as if his mask has finally slipped. He isn’t looking at James, he’s staring at his shadow on the wooden floor.

“I’m going to go speak with my publisher and then you and I will have the rest of the time together. If you want that?” James attempts because he’s crumbling but he doesn’t want to fall yet. He will fall and wail once he is on his journey home. Not now.

“Of course I do,” John speaks quietly, still staring at James’ shadow.

Then that was that.

They didn’t speak on the sad entity of the future that lingered between them.

\--

A cigarette dangles from John’s lips in the sunlight as he takes a long drag and releases the tendrils between his lips. The day is offensive to him in its bright cheeriness.

He’s waiting by the fountain outside of James’ publisher office like a lovesick idiot. He wants to run and hide as if that could stop James from stepping off this stage of theirs.

He observes a couple kiss while holding hands along the shops presented to them. The bitterness is planted like a seed. Soon he will have an oak in his rib cage.

Why should they get to show their happiness to the world but John can’t display his?

He didn’t have to go to college this coming year. He could follow James back home and then they’d be free. It sounds wistfully simple but he knew he wouldn’t want John to give up his life for him. To live like thieves in perpetual hiding from society.  

The moment he spots James’ form step out of the office he puts out his cigarette and his heart is full again. The bitterness falls away and he can breathe. He has a wide smile for him made of fleeting anticipation.

They eat figs shoulder to shoulder observing couples strolling around like they are dancing inside a music box. They were outside of their world and looking in from another window.

They’re two exposed wires and John rests his head on James’ shoulder between the sparks.

“We have no secrets now.”

John feels contemplative but James doesn’t wish to dig.

“Would you like some wine?”

John has never felt more safe and free then he does with him. But John doesn’t say that. Instead, he says, “yes, I really would.”

_‘my body is your body’_

\--

John smiles at everyone as they pass, to the vendors, to an old woman who gives him nothing but a glare in return. To a man sweating beneath the dying sun. He doesn’t hold back his happiness even if it has an expiration date.

James is the same. He holds John’s entire being when he glances at him. They’re lost in each other by simply walking closely down a cobblestone street. Their hands bump and when the strip of path is emptied James grips John’s fingers.

After the sun has left them is when they pass a bottle of red wine between them sharing the laughter and growing bolder with their affection.

John eagerly presses James against a crumbling wall covered in dried vines.

“I’ll die on this street on this night if I can’t kiss you,” John relays desperately. The wine is making him dizzily brazen.

“Then stop being dramatic…” James encourages and John captures his mouth with his, immediately connecting their tongues to taste the wine left over between them.

This kiss is different. There is an edge to it of a goodbye, of something beyond desperation. He wants to place himself inside James, pack him up like his suitcases then burn the rest.

When their lips finally part in reddened hazy breath there is nothing that needs to be said. There are no words to release from their tongues. It is unnecessary.

They dance alone in alleyways, finish the wine while reaching for the moon, laugh like madmen from a language they only understand. It is the way of love, John thinks. This is true.

\--

“The San Clemente Syndrome.”

James speaks softly and he’s watching the same shadowed ceiling again from their bed. They are both still fully clothed lying next to each other in the dark. There is a quiet comfort passing between them as if they’ve become the landscape.

“What’s that?” John prods.

“It is everything, the continuation through time. The moving on. A church is built on the ruins of restorations, there is no end, just layers of passageways, caved in chambers, like the Catacombs.”

John is quiet for a moment but he doesn’t turn to look at him to provoke him. He lets him have his space in silence.

The moons glow is a lament. One that will remain in the chambers of his mind he will have to lock away.

“Then we can’t end.”

John’s voice is on the verge of wavering away from him.

“We will build ourselves over this restoration.”

James knows it’s a harsh thing to say but he wants John to move on as time does. He wants him to live his life, get his degree, find love, a love that can restore him.

“I want to keep this ruin.”

James turns then, moving the bed between them and tears have already sprung from John’s eyelashes.

“You can’t stay here. I want you to promise me that you will build yourself again.”

James rests his hand on John’s cheek and holds the tears he gives him in his fingers, in his palm.

“I could go with you? I don’t have—” John begins in a rasp

James interrupts, “you have everything to lose, you have your career, your life still ahead of you.”

If John follows him then misery would soon find them and he will not be responsible for tearing John away and hiding him like a gleaming gemstone from the world. He can’t be his keeper or his prison.

“Being without you is hiding. You still don’t understand that. Being without you is accepting the shame again.”

“You’ve already banished the shame and I am happy to have had a hand in that. You deserve to be free,” James tone trembles and it nearly gives away the delicate wall he’s attempting to build between them.

“You love me. Even though you won’t say it,” John announces and then promptly turns away from James presenting his back to him.

He watches John’s shoulders shake with silent weeping and he moves in closer to wrap himself around him. To remember.

He kisses the nape of John’s neck and breathes in the scent of his curls.

The moon didn’t owe them time anymore. The sand in the hourglass empties and falls silent.

\--

The day of the Goodbye is rainy and humid like suffocating under a wet blanket. John stands staring at the train platform as if he’s willing to be swallowed by this gloom.

He doesn’t know where he is anymore. He doesn’t know who he is anymore. James is taking the rest of him with him.

He’s standing in front of John with wet hair and a teary-eyed side smile that represents a lasting pain more wretched then heartbreak. Their love is still here and it will be between them through the distance.  Through time.

John reaches out and wraps his arms around James, pressing his face to his shoulder. They are plastered to one another like clay.

“I want to go with you,” John pleads even though he knows it’s fruitless.

“You can’t.”

James voice cracks and they step back out of the embrace. It surprises John how James’ features are slowly collapsing. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hold his feelings at bay.

There will be no restoration but he isn’t about to speak of that now. Not in this small moment that is broken by the conductor announcing departure.

“Live your life, John,” James words are a quick rush of sound like a waterfall of rain and they held no meaning to either of them. It’s a lie.

John is trembling, his body is shaking apart at the seams.

James still won’t tell him he loves him but he doesn’t need to. He can see it in his misery.

John is in a solemn disembodiment watching James turn to leave him. There are so many words he could say, so many whispers, screams, confessions but he’s silent.

The silence is what defines them the most in this quiet Goodbye. It sticks to memories like dust.

He watches James disappear onto the train and then there is a hand on the window for him. James’ hand, his fingers he can recognize anywhere and John is moving quickly towards the train.

He rests his hand on the wet glass and watches as James begins to weep on the other side of it.

John wonders fleetingly what will attempt to be built over this ruin. What kind of foundational layer could possibly replace the two souls that rested there?

As the train moves and his hand separates from the glass, he thinks of the message he left James in the book he gifted him.

_“Between always and never, for you in silence”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was angsty but there will be a happy ending in this fic :) up next is some soul searching for them! Thank you for reading <3


End file.
